Only One
by HollyHobbit1
Summary: HighlanderLoTR Crossover. Jordan Waters is an Immortal who is transported to Mddle-earth, where she meets our favorite Elf.
1. Origins

Disclaimer: This is my very first fan fiction. I'm a big fan of the movie(s) and haven't had a chance to read the books…yet. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue. A special 'thank you' to Raq for beta reading/editing.

Note:In 'Highlander, End Game', Duncan was married to another Immortal, Kate/Faith. In **my** story, Duncan was never married. Period.

**Only One**

" . . . In the days before memory, there were the Immortals.

We were with you then, and we are with you now.

We are driven by the endless fight to survive

In a game which knows no limit of time or place

We are the seeds of Legend, but our true Origins are unknown.

We simply are. . . "

-Highlander, Endgame

Origins

Seacouver, Washington

Present day

"Code blue, Life Flight, helo-deck!"

The Public Address system intoned the announcement overhead three times, sending the medical team scrambling to meet it. Elsewhere, in the hallway of the Operating Department, Jordan Waters stood to one side, pressed against the wall as the on coming surgical team hurried past her. For a brief second she was tempted to keep walking, but her conscience got the better of her; with a sigh, Jordan pulled out a clean mask from the box over the scrub sink, fastened the ties, and stepped into the operating room reserved for trauma cases. Inside was a controlled frenzy of activity.

"It's a 'Code Blue'; what's going on?" Jordan asked her colleagues as she helped unwrap the sterile equipment.

"This is what separates the men from the boys Jordie - trauma. A car with multiple unrestrained occupants rolled over, all ejected, driver only survived. You can imagine his injuries. We're ready if the Code Blue needs his or her chest cracked open." The Charge Nurse replied as he helped the team prepare the room.

"A better question to ask is: 'why are you still here, Miss Waters?'" Craig asked. Though the bottom half of his face was covered by the surgical mask, Jordan could well imagine the scowl it covered.

"I thought you guys could use the help." Jordan said.

"If a sick call comes in the next thirty seconds, consider yourself drafted until the morning. Get out o' here while you can!" Craig sternly but affectionately instructed her. Jordan couldn't help but concede the point; he was right, for there was no way of telling how long the case would run, and she really was tired.

"Just let me help you guys open, Craig. They'll be coming any second." Jordan replied.

"You've done your shift and you're off the clock. Go before I change my mind!"

"Fine, fine! I'll see you when I get back. Have a good shift." Jordan replied.

"Count on it!" Craig said as he gently but firmly pushed her out the door.

Though willing to stay until things calmed down, Jordan was glad to leave. In the female locker room's full-length mirror, the woman studied her reflection before removing her OR cap and shaking her hair out. Winding a length of blue-black hair around her finger, she examined it.

"I need a trim." Jordan said, frowning.

Spiky bangs with graduated side layers framed an oval face, its length reaching her waist. Jordan leaned forward, critically examining her features; the most striking of her features were her eyes. The almond shape hinted at her Asian heritage; however, the unusual color spoke of her American roots; green as a new leaf one moment, they could darken to moss, depending on her mood. Or so she was told. With a sigh, Jordan made her way to her locker, changed out of her scrubs and into her street clothes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Jordan Waters has left the building-Wooohooo! Hello vacation!" she muttered to herself wearily as she shrugged into her coat, grabbed her purse and closed her locker door. Though weary, her footsteps lightened as she drew closer to the exit.

"Need an escort to your car, Jordan?" A hospital security guard asked.

"No thanks, I'm fine — see you in a month!" she replied.

"Must be nice! Where do you think you're goin'?" the burly guard asked jovially and just a bit envious.

"On my vacation? Anywhere but here, my friend!" Jordan called over her shoulder as she headed towards the exit.

With a mischievous grin, Jordan waved good-bye as the automatic doors slid shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss. Making her way to her car, the smile on the woman's face faded as she thought about her night . . .

_All was quiet and uneventful in the Operating Department – until an emergency rolled in during the last hours of Jordan's shift. Despite the heroic efforts of the surgical team, the man died, leaving behind three young children and a wife. During the operation, it was learned that two days prior, the patient came to the emergency room suffering from a stroke; after the usual battery of tests, it was discovered the stroke was actually caused from a blood vessel bleeding in the brain – or a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Ironically, he had been scheduled for surgery early that morning, but the re-bleeding aneurysm drastically altered those plans. Jordan did not envy the doctors their grim and unpleasant task of informing the family of their sudden and tragic loss._

_Life is so precious and fragile. I wonder if he got to say good bye . . ?_ she thought to herself.

Lost in her thoughts, Jordan didn't see the dark figure shadowing her steps until he was literally upon her.

"You don't need this, girlie" a rough voice growled.

Startled, Jordan looked up at her assailant as he snatched her purse. Angry and indignant, Jordan hung onto it—until he pulled out a screwdriver and repeatedly stabbed her in the chest and stomach. Falling to the ground in shock, her last conscious thought was "Duncan's not going to like this . . . "

Darkness… a dull throbbing pain in her midsection. With a gasp, Jordan's eyes flew open as sat up, frantically feeling where she had been stabbed – in the heart.

"Rule number one Jordie – 'pay attention'. Here, drink this." Duncan handed her a tumbler filled with whisky.

"No, I don't-"

"Drink!"

The younger Immortal obediently reached for the proffered tumbler and took a small sip, choking as the amber liquid burned its way down. Jordan glared accusingly at her rescuer as she took a second sip; grimacing from the sting of the alcohol, Jordan took stock of her situation. She was in Duncan's loft, in his bed, wearing one of his shirts; on her, its hem reached her knees and looked more like a muu-muu. Her bloody and punctured clothing was draped over a nearby chair, as well as her coveted purse.

"Don't worry, everything's in there. He didn't get far…"

Jordan didn't bother asking what happened to her assailant; she knew Duncan would deal with him as he saw fit, and frankly, she didn't care what happened.

"Did anyone see?" she hesitantly asked.

"Fine security the hospital's got." The Highlander snorted sarcastically.

"I guess that means 'no'." Jordan concluded, relieved. So far, she'd been successful at staying alive – until now. With no witnesses, she wouldn't need to leave everything behind and assume a new identity – and life.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, also known in Immortal circles as the Highlander, sat back in his chair, a faint smile on his lips. The sight of Jordan in his bed took him back in time, to a special moment in his long life, when he shared his heart, home and bed with Tessa Noël. For a little over ten years, he was blessed with her, the love of his life. They had so much love for one another; they built a life together, and were planning to marry when Tessa was cruelly taken from him – fatally shot by a mugger. Though never lacking in offers to share a woman's bed, and occasionally accepting one, it had been a long time since Duncan had a woman share his bed; now there, in the middle of it, sat Jordan. Ironically, all he felt for the young Immortal was that of a brother's love and mentor's concern. Thankfully, it was mutual.

"You know, Jordie — if you continue to day dream when you should be alert, that pretty little head of yours won't be on your neck for much longer. Not to mention that mortals will be on to you. We survive by secrecy and I'd rather not be parted from your company sooner than I must. It's a good thing I came when I did." Duncan said.

Though his tone of voice was deceptively mild, his Highland burr was more pronounced, and his dark eyes were more intense than usual – unmistakable signs of his displeasure. Silently, Jordan accepted the rebuke. Standing, the Highlander tossed Jordan some clothes.

"Here are sweats Richie left behind. Joe and a friend are here; join us in the kitchen after you've dressed. I'll fix you a plate." Shaking his head, Duncan sighed and left the room. Jordan could hear low voices; thankfully, a lacquered screen provided a measure of privacy in the loft's open floor plan.

Richie Ryan. Thinking about him brought back the regret and guilt at taking his friend and student's head — no matter how accidental it was, it didn't change the fact that Richie had died by Duncan's hand. Though it had been years ago, it seemed like only yesterday. Once Immortality has been triggered, time's passing ceased to matter. The years flowed together with numbing sameness, marked by the number of heads taken, and the never ending battle to keep one's own head. Now Duncan had Jordan Waters again. She was his chance to atone for Richie's death. What the Scot hadn't expected, was that through the years, Jordan had become like a little sister, as well as a true friend. An endless romantic, intelligent, naïve and strong, she was full of contradictions that amused and frustrated him. Duncan swore to teach her all he could, to ensure she had a fair chance at The Game. Even then, things could change, he mused. After all, there can be only One. Duncan thought back to the time he first met her…

: _: Philippines_

_February 1945_

_Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was fighting with the Allies in the Pacific campaign when his Army Company was deployed to the Philippines. As promised, General Douglas MacArthur returned the year prior, the war ended, and the American presence was in the Far East to provide stability and root out the remaining pockets of Japanese resistance. It was on a weekend liberty pass, that the Chieftain's son met Jordan Waters. Catching sight of her from across the street, the Clansman recognized her as a pre-Immortal; Duncan made discrete inquiries as to who she was, and followed her from a distance. _

_Cherished and coddled, Jordan was the only daughter born to an American entrepreneur who married a rich Chinese businessman's daughter; she was only 21 years old at the time. Even then she was a bit of a brat, but oh, what a lovely one. Eyes, lips and pearly skin Jordan inherited from her Chinese/Filipino mother. Her eye color - a startling shade of green, came from her American father. Jordan brought out the protective side in Duncan, especially when a rowdy bunch of sailors with too much drink in them followed her down a street, thinking she'd be willing to have their company. _

_After knocking a few heads around and bloodying several noses and faces, the Highlander was able to convince them otherwise. Making her acquaintance in such a dashing manner, Jordan was suitably impressed and invited Duncan to lunch; grateful for his timely interference, her father welcomed the gallant Scotsman and treated him to the best Cuban cigars and an endless supply of San Miguel beer. In her mother's eyes, the Highlander could do no wrong. The friendship progressed to the point where Duncan often stopped by Jordan's home – just to spend time with her parents; he could often be found with her father in his library discussing business, or in the kitchen flirting outrageously with their ancient cook, who often made the Highlander's favorite Filipino dishes with extra care when she knew he would be visiting. _

_The lighthearted times ended when Jordan died her first death. Running late to rendezvous with her girlfriends, the young lady stubbornly refused her mother's request that she use the family's chauffeur. Instead, Jordan opted to go by jeepney - the Filipino taxi-cab (retro-fitted Army vehicles embellished with outrageous decorations and flamboyant paint jobs), relishing the novelty of it, as well as the chance to be away from her driver's watchful gaze. After an exhilarating and hair-raising ride to Luneta Park, Jordan caught sight of her girlfriends across the street, waiting for her at the Jose Rizal monument; the pre-Immortal was crossing the street when another jeepney, whose driver was intent on beating pedestrians through the intersection, struck and killed her. _

_Duncan was at her parent's home, playing the tile game mahjongg with her parents and their close friends, when her family received word of her death. Too distraught to make the trip to the morgue to identify their daughter's broken body, the Highlander left her parents in the care of their closest friends and immediately took charge of the situation, making arrangements, pulling strings, calling in favors, and spreading a small fortune in pesos to purchase silence - knowing Jordan would revive, and the real questions would begin. Jordan's heartbroken parents, paralyzed by the loss of their treasured daughter, didn't question Duncan's sudden assertiveness in the matter. _

_The grieving parents cremated and interred the remains of another, believing it was their lost daughter; in actuality, Duncan had Jordan cloistered in an apartment he kept nearby. Revived, confused, and frightened, Duncan watched over the new Immortal as her wounds healed, and guided her through her disbelief. Initially, until he was able to reason with her, the Highlander often had to forcibly restrain Jordan from leaving and returning to her parents. _

_A month after her funeral, Duncan brought Jordan word that her parents, in an attempt to ease their grief and pain, embarked on an extended trip away. As if a painful death wasn't bad enough, the fledgling Immortal finally realized her former life was lost to her forever, when Duncan informed Jordan her father's business and her childhood home was sold; to make matters worse, all her family's assets had been liquidated shortly after her parent's departure. Everything was gone: her family, her friends - she didn't even have a single Centavo to hold, for her personal effects were given to her stunned parents. Jordan's life as she knew it was no more, and she now had no choice but to learn The Game._

"_You're under my instruction now, Jordie. And for as long as you live, you'll be under my protection." The Highlander swore._

"_But . . . after I'm stronger . . . will you come after my head?" she anxiously asked. _

"_Don't give me a reason to." The Highlander answered her._

"_That's not reassuring, Duncan." Jordan said._

"_It's the best I can give you." He replied._

_Duncan began training Jordan in the art of combat, with a combination of saint-like patience and restraint—from having to beat her into compliance. In the beginning, it was difficult working with the Princess Jordan was then; however, once he was able to get Jordan to focus, she proved to be an apt and diligent pupil. During their sparring sessions in the Philippines, Jordan learned the ancient art of Escrima, or stick fighting. The duo traveled through the Asian continent; in Thailand, he taught her basic survival skills in the wild - a far cry from her pampered lifestyle. In Japan, the Teacher taught his Student the way of the sword. Duncan enjoyed teaching Jordan how to throw knives, spikes and other weapons. It was then they discovered the new Immortal's skill with the shurikens—or throwing stars. Beautiful and deadly, they were Jordan's favorite. The Highlander was pleased with the progress of her training, but Jordan still had much to learn, things that the Scotsman couldn't teach; only time, experience and determination, the best instructors, would teach her - provided Jordan kept her head on her shoulders. _

_It was after Jordan took her fifth head, that Duncan gifted her with a dozen of her own Scorpion shurikens, a set of Escrima sticks that, when joined, became a bo staff, and her first sword- a beautiful Katana forged by a wizened master sword smith; shortly after, Jordan had a serious case of wanderlust and decided it was time to strike out on her own. After making Jordan swear to keep in touch, with many misgivings - and Duncan's parting gift of ten thousand American dollars, Teacher and student parted ways. : _

Dressed in Richie's old sweats and a pair of Duncan's thick cotton socks, Jordan looked like a forlorn child as she slowly made her way to the kitchen. Joe Dawson, a Watcher and good friend, sat on a kitchen stool drinking a glass of Cola. Smiling as he slid off the stool, Joe enveloped Jordan in a gentle hug before pulling out a stool for her to sit on; smiling her thanks, Jordan took her seat at the kitchen bar as Duncan pushed a plate of food before her.

"Good to see you, kiddo; Duncan here tells me you had a little…'incident' at the hospital; kinda ironic, eh?"

Making a face at Joe while she chewed, Jordan swallowed before she smiled sheepishly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—I'm glad my knight in a cluttered antique shop came to my rescue!" she replied.

Ready to put the incident behind her, Jordan looked quizzically at Duncan's other guest. An older gentleman dressed in a dapper gray suit with silver-white hair, he had an unmistakable aura of authority about him. However, it was his eyes that caught her attention; kind in expression, blue-gray in color, they held a perceptive glint. Jordan felt as if with a single piercing glance, Gregory knew everything about her. Trying to shake the feeling, the Immortal looked expectantly at Duncan, who was quietly watching her.

"Jordie, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gregory McGulloch-Gregory, this is Jordie. He also deals in antiques, mainly Celtic items from Scotland, England and Ireland; his Paris shop isn't far from mine." Duncan said.

"Lovely to meet you, Jordan Milagros Waters. Duncan tells me you two go back quite a ways." Gregory's sharp gaze rested upon her.

As Gregory clasped her hand, the Immortal noticed his grip was firm, and his skin warm and dry. Glancing at the men's half-eaten plates of food, she picked up her fork and forced herself to take dainty bites of food as Joe settled back onto his stool.

"Likewise. Yes, Duncan and I traveled through Asia for a while. He taught me a few things." She shot a cheeky smile at Duncan, who raised his eyebrows at her in return. Gregory smiled apologetically to Jordan before turning to his host.

"Well, Duncan, it was a pleasure to visit with you again; alas, I've some business to attend to." said Gregory, "Kindly inform me if you find more antiques I may be interested in; I am here for three weeks and shall see you next week."

With his cane in hand, Joe Dawson slid off his stool as well. The Watcher turned to Duncan. "Same here, buddy, I gotta get going. Thanks for breakfast! I owe you one. A band's comin' over at 11:00 for rehearsal before their gig tonight. See you then-and make sure Jordie comes—there's more to life than the operating room, you know." Joe fixed Jordan with a steely glare, the smile on his lips softening the expression.

As Duncan walked his guests out, Jordan waited till they were out of sight. Glad to drop her façade of decorum, she eagerly devoured the rest of her food and started to work on Gregory's untouched fruit. Still hungry, the woman reached for Joe's half-eaten plate. Generously buttering a flapjack, Jordan piled scrambled eggs onto the center before placing two sausage links on top of the golden, fluffy eggs. Holding it like a taco, Jordan poured maple syrup over it before taking a large bite, her eyes closed in ecstasy as she chewed.

Slowing down long enough to enjoy her food, Jordan licked the crumbs and syrup from her fingers. Thinking about the Highlander's odd guest, the Immortal realized Duncan hadn't said her full name, yet Gregory McGulloch knew it.

_Things that make you go 'hmmm'_ she mused. With a shrug, Jordan pushed it out of her mind, and thought about Joe's comments. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to find that it was only 9:00am.

_His guests must have come early; Either I took long to revive, or I really needed the rest. _ she mused.

Taking a sip of her cranberry juice, the hollow thud of Duncan's footsteps drew closer; cradling her glass between her hands, the younger Immortal steeled herself for the forthcoming lecture. Duncan sat next to her, pulled his plate towards him and picked up a fork. Taking a bite of his eggs, the Chieftain's Son chewed slowly and purposefully, a sure sign of his displeasure. Slowly sipping her juice, Jordan stifled a belch as she waited for him to speak. Placing his fork on the counter with a resounding clink, the Highlander turned to his Student.

"Jordie, you have seven puncture wounds. The fact that he was able to get close to you and take you out concerns me. He was mortal. What if he wasn't?" Duncan said, his dark brows drawn together. Eyeing his bacon, Jordan put on her best innocent expression.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked him hopefully, batting her eyelashes.

Glaring at her, Duncan handed over three strips of bacon and placed them onto Jordan's—formerly Joe's—now empty plate. Taking a slice of toast from Duncan's plate, Jordan ignored his exasperated expression as she placed the bacon on the toast, folded it in half and took a bite. Chewing contentedly, she looked at the Highlander, who pointedly looked at the empty plates surrounding her.

"What? I missed lunch - I just got off work and healing always makes me hungry." She said defensively, her mouth full of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Duncan said, slightly annoyed. The slight twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away; it was difficult to be stern with Jordan when she was obviously enjoying her food.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked; his tone brooked no argument. Brushing the crumbs from her lips and hands with her napkin, Jordan sighed.

"Yes, Duncan, I did. To answer your question, well . . . I would've felt the buzz, right? Gimme a break. I'm okay. Granted you were there, I would've revived-" Duncan interrupted her.

"And then what? How would you explain the situation to the security guards, or better yet, the media? Do you want to end up as someone's guinea pig? Trust me, it's not something you want to experience." The Scot assured her.

Standing up, the Highlander carried his plate to the sink; about to scrape his leftovers into the garbage disposal, he hesitated. Offering the plate to Jordan, she happily accepted it. Picking up her fork, she dug in and ate almost all of his toast and bacon.

"How can someone so small eat so much?" Duncan wondered.

Jordan shrugged and licked her fingers. Unable to finish the rest, she sat back and rubbed her full stomach. Hoping to make more room in her decidedly full belly, the woman slid off the stool and helped Duncan clean up. Together, they began loading the dishwasher. After consuming her large breakfast, Jordan looked forward to taking a nap on the balcony.

"I went by your apartment and picked up your gear and some clothes. If you're going to finish your food, do it now then

change and meet me in the dojo. We're training." Duncan said nonchalantly.

"But—" Jordan began to protest; her Teacher's look silenced any further protests as she scraped her plate into the garbage disposal.

Wincing as she pulled on her white shirt, Jordan studied her wounds in the mirror. The punctures over her heart, chest and abdomen were healed, the skin still pink and tender to the touch. She quickly plaited her hair into a tight French braid, the wispy side layers, too short to plait, tickled her face. Groaning, Jordan sucked her breath in as she buttoned her sturdy black denim jeans, which hugged her lower half like a second skin.

_I shouldn't have eaten so much! I won't be able to move._ She lamented. A belch helped ease her full stomach. Somewhat.

Over her shirt the Immortal buttoned a molded black leather vest, which served as both a fashion statement, as well as demi-armor. Draping a sash over her shoulder it held her shurikens for easy access. Cinched at her waist was Jordan's weapon belt: her Katana in it's scabbard on her left hip, her Escrima sticks at her right hip, both neatly out of sight, hidden within the folds of her overcoat. An Armani, of course-it didn't provide much warmth, but it looked fabulous. It was the Immortal's favorite; its graceful line, fabric and cut flattered her figure, but didn't hinder her movements.

The coup de grace was the secret scabbard that sheathed her Katana. Inspecting herself, Jordan was satisfied with her appearance. With her overcoat open, the shurikens were the only visible weapons, winking in the light. Changing her mind, Jordan left behind her sash, sticks and overcoat, and instead grabbed her Katana as she headed out to train.

Duncan was waiting for her in the middle of the dojo, with his Dragon Head Katana in hand. Looking around, Jordan could see that, like the man who owned it, it hadn't changed much. Various weapons hung from their wall casings and weight lifting equipment was at one of the far corners of the room. On the wall hung Japanese swords and scrolls with Kanji characters decoratively and strategically placed. Jordan's light footsteps whispered across the hard wood floor.

Stopping four feet away from her mentor and friend, the Immortals bowed then assumed a fighting stance. Raising their swords, they circled. Brilliant sparks flew once their Katanas connected. The force behind the Highlander's blade rattled Jordan's teeth, yet she held her own, glad to see Duncan wasn't holding back. For a time, their breathing and the ringing clang of metal on metal, were the only sounds in the room as they traded blows and parries in a dizzying series of thrusts and counter-thrusts, their bodies moving in a graceful yet menacing dance. Breaking away, circling each other, feinting, lunging, exchanging thrusts, the Immortals sparred, until at last Duncan signaled the end of the session.

"You've improved since the last time we trained." Duncan said approvingly, pleased to see that Jordan could keep up with him.

"I like my head." She replied with a saucy tilt of her head.

Looking out the window, the Highlander decided to end their session. "Okay, let's eat lunch." Duncan said. Surprised, Jordan followed his gaze to see the sun had climbed high in the sky.

With a wicked grin, she yelled, "I treat—you pay!" Duncan swatted her derriere with the flat of his blade, causing her to yelp in mock outrage. Sticking her tongue out at him, Jordan ran for the door as he gave chase.


	2. Leaf of Change

Disclaimer: This is my very first fan fiction. I'm a big fan of the movie(s) and haven't had a chance to read the books...yet. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue.  
  
My Only Love  
--Sailor Moon  
The English animated TV Series  
Jennifer Cihi as Serena/Serenity  
  
Deep in my soul,  
  
The love's so strong,  
  
It takes control,  
Now we both know,  
  
The secret's bared,  
  
The feeling shows.  
Driven far apart,  
  
I'll make a wish,  
  
On a shooting star.  
There will come a day,  
  
Somewhere far away,  
  
In your arms I'll stay,  
  
My only love.  
Even though you're gone,  
  
Love will still live on,  
  
The feeling is so strong,  
  
My only love,  
  
My only love.  
There will come a day,  
  
Somewhere far away,  
  
In your arms I'll stay,  
  
My only love.  
You've reached the deepest part,  
  
Of the secret in my heart,  
  
I've known it from the start,  
  
My only love,  
  
My only love.  
  
Leaf of Change  
  
Jordan's time with Duncan was pleasant. The Immortals reminisced about the past, caught up with the news each one had to tell, and through it all - trained. Though her mind had forgotten what a taskmaster Duncan MacLeod is, Jordan's sore body would definitely remind her. This particular morning was spent doing relaxing katas, and the afternoon was filled with intense cardio kickboxing and flexibility training. Afterwards, the younger Immortal was hardly able to walk upright; however, even she had to admit the temporary physical aches and pains were a good sign, because it reminded Jordan that the fighting skills she possessed, though long unused, were indeed still present.  
  
Before Jordan knew it, a week had passed, and Gregory McGulloch was expected that evening for dinner. After accompanying Duncan to the grocery store, Jordan chopped vegetables as the Highlander prepared the marinade for their meal. Separating the crushed garlic into a neat pile, Duncan noticed Jordan blinking rapidly as she scraped the sliced onions into a bowl.  
  
"I told you to bite a wooden spoon, Jordie. It would've saved you from crying." The Highlander remarked.  
  
"I know, Duncan. I should've listened." She sniffled, as tears streamed down her face. The younger Immortal washed and dried her hands before she perched on a kitchen stool. Dabbing at her eyes with a paper napkin, Jordan leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter, watching her Mentor cook as she nibbled a raw mushroom.  
  
"Can I help with anything else, Duncan?" she asked.  
  
"Just sit there and look pretty, Jordan." He replied with a wink.  
Jordan laughed.  
  
"Pretty. I can do pretty. How's this?"  
  
Vamping it up, Jordan struck a sultry pose. She fluttered her eyelashes at the Highlander and blew him a kiss. Playing along, Duncan gave a piercing catcall and leered at her, a rakish grin on his handsome face. Their peals of laughter echoed through the apartment.  
  
Gregory arrived promptly at 6:00pm, and was delighted to see Jordan as she opened the door and welcomed him in. Looking very distinguished in a pair of dark slacks, Gregory's charcoal and silver sweater set off his snowy hair nicely. He entered the loft and peered at Jordan appreciatively, for her forest green sleeveless sweater and black pants emphasized her trim figure and brought out her exotic beauty and eyes. Drying his hands on a dishtowel, the Highlander came out of the kitchen to welcome his guest. Gregory turned to greet Duncan with a smile and a warm handshake.  
  
After a sumptuous meal comprised of filet mignon with a red wine and portabella mushroom sauce, the little company retired to the living area. Jordan nursed her ginger ale and the men drank dessert wines as they talked about everything under the sun. Gregory had just finished telling a particularly amusing story about a recent antique acquisition that had the Immortals doubled over in laughter, when the phone rang; excusing himself, Duncan went to answer it. With an apologetic look directed towards his guests, the Scot took the call in his office, leaving Gregory and Jordan to get better acquainted.  
  
"So, Jordan, Duncan tells me you're in the medical field." Gregory's sharp gaze rested on the Immortal.  
  
"Yes, I'm a Registered Nurse here in Seacouver Medical, I work in the trauma O.R." Jordan replied.  
  
"Ah, a Healer." Gregory said, nodding his head.  
  
"Well, sort of. I help with the healing process, but in an indirect way. And how did you come to be in the antique business?" Jordan asked, ready to change the subject.  
  
It was the Immortal's personal policy that when she was off the clock, she didn't want to think about anything or anyone even remotely connected with her job. Once Jordan walked thru the hospital doors, all her work related problems were left behind as well.  
  
"Oh, I've always been interested in other cultures and artifacts; time is a fickle creature, for it dims memory, but it also preserves it as well. Antiques are the remnants of a time past, and Celtic items are my passion -- mainly those of Scotland, England and Ireland—so much history, there is; legends and myths have their roots there. Legends always have a grain of truth in them, you know."  
  
Jordan smiled as the man spoke, feeling at ease in his company. Gregory studied her with an intensity in his eyes caught her off guard.  
  
"Any family? Is there a Mr. Waters? Or a significant other for that matter?"  
  
** Inquiring minds want to know ** Jordan thought. Arching a shapely brow at him, the Immortal smiled before looking away, taking a moment to consider her answer. Her green eyes took on a sad, faraway look before replying.  
  
"No, my parents died a long time ago. As for a 'Mr. Waters', I don't think there'll ever be one, not at the rate I'm going. It's hard to date while working the night shift. But that's okay. Duncan is my family, and I have my work. I'm fine." Jordan's gaze turned to the window, looking out into the gathering darkness.  
  
** Who am I trying to convince? Me? ** Jordan thought to herself, missing the relieved smile on Gregory's face.  
  
"Ah, there is always someone for everyone. Whether it is in this time or another." Gregory commented, his tone matter of fact.  
  
Something in the older gentleman's voice caused Jordan to look at him with a questioning glance, wondering what exactly he meant by that odd comment.  
  
** No, he couldn't possibly know about Us. Or could he . . . ? ** Jordan stared at him, unsure.  
  
Gregory held her gaze with a level one of his own, his expression was deceptively innocent.  
  
** Riddle me this, riddle me that ** she thought.  
  
What started out as a pleasant and enjoyable evening was swiftly taking on an odd twist. Gregory and Jordan stared at each other for what felt like a lifetime when Duncan returned. Sensing something of importance had just transpired, the Highlander looked between them.  
  
"Did I miss something?" Duncan asked  
  
"No, old boy, we were just talking. But, I had better run along. Thank you for a wonderful dinner; it's getting late for these old bones to be traipsing about. I have several appointments to keep on the morrow, and rest is always a good thing." Turning to Jordan, he gave a slight, gallant bow.  
  
"Jordan, I'm glad you are here. It saves me the disappointment of not seeing your lovely face when you open this." Gregory reached into his pant pocket, and with a flourish, presented the woman with a small mahogany box, whose lid had silver runes carved into it.  
  
Surprised, Jordan looked at Duncan, and with a grin of delight, accepted the proffered box; it was beautiful, its size no bigger than a credit card. Opening it carefully, nestled inside on a bed of light brown velvet, lay an exquisitely crafted leaf encircled in a silver thread. Touching it softly, it felt unusually warm beneath her fingertips.  
  
** That's odd, probably from being inside Gregory's pants,** Jordan thought to herself.  
  
"It's beautiful...um, what is it?"  
  
"That, lovely Jordan is a leaf from the fabled woods of Lothlórien." Gregory said. His pleasant voice held a wistful note. Jordan wondered why the old gent was so affected. Visibly shaking himself, Gregory smiled at Jordan.  
  
"It is yours, Jordan. Please accept this small gift." The older man said.  
  
"Oh, I can't possibly accept it – its much too valuable." The Immortal reluctantly replied as she looked at the jeweled leaf.  
  
If Gregory ran in the same social circle as the Highlander, Jordan knew the older gentleman, as does the Clansman, dealt in nothing but high-end antiques – the kind where if a client had to ask how much, then they could not afford it.  
  
"I knew the moment we met that this was meant for you. It belongs to you." Gregory said, with an odd ghost of a smile on his lips.  
  
Jordan glanced quickly at her Mentor, seeking his opinion; with a smile and the lightest nod of his head, Duncan gave his blessing. Unbeknownst to the Immortals, Gregory was holding his breath as he watched the silent exchange. With a wide grin, Jordan turned back to the older man.  
  
"Do you accept it, Jordan Waters?" Gregory asked softly, studying her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. For some reason, it felt as if his simple query held more meaning beyond the obvious question.  
  
"Yes!" she answered eagerly, holding his steady gaze. Nodding in satisfaction, Gregory smiled.  
  
"Then may I assist you?" Gregory asked.  
  
"Please do!" she replied; Jordan gathered her hair and held it away from her neck.  
  
Lifting the leaf by its delicate silver chain, Gregory fastened the clasp around her slender neck. The moment it touched her skin, the warmth was unmistakable. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to be noticed. Touching it again, Jordan was surprised to find it cool to the touch.  
  
** Curiouser and curiouser** Jordan thought as she turned to Duncan.  
  
"What do you think, Duncan? Is it me?" she asked.  
  
Unbeknownst to Jordan, the emerald leaf made her eyes glitter in a most becoming way. Duncan looked at the necklace and decided it somehow looked right on her.  
  
"Yes, Jordie, I believe it's a keeper." The older Immortal replied.  
  
Smiling at the men, Jordan hurried over to a mirror to inspect her gift; she met Gregory's eyes in the mirror, and again wondered why he was watching her so closely.  
  
"Thank you, Gregory. It's beautiful and I love it!" the younger Immortal exclaimed as she clutched the leaf to her bosom. It was her first truly expensive piece of jewelry.  
  
"No, Miss Waters, it is I who should thank you for accepting it. Sometimes we need a link to find that person we're meant for." Gregory said; his eyes seemed to bore into hers.  
  
** This is getting weirder.** Jordan thought as the old gentleman turned to his host.  
  
"Well then; my presence is no longer required here. It is time for me to go. Dear Jordan, please come and walk an old man out."  
  
Almost skipping in her pleasure, Jordan hurried over to Gregory and took his arm. Reaching the door, she looked up at him and placed a kiss on his cheek.  
  
"Thank you, Gregory. " the Immortal said with all sincerity.  
  
With a kiss on her cheek, Gregory stepped out the door. Jordan closed it softly behind him.  
  
"Oh, I forgot to ask him what kind of tree this is from!" she exclaimed as she opened the door again; somehow Jordan wasn't surprised to find the hallway empty.  
  
The next day, after a rigorous morning of flexibility and strength training, and later, a full contact sparring session with the Highlander – which she of course lost, Jordan had an acute sweet tooth attack. Taking a quick moment to unplait her hair from its usual braid, Jordan ran her fingers thru her damp raven tresses and shook it out.  
  
Stopping by a convenience store near Duncan's loft, Jordan hurriedly buttoned her overcoat before going in, wanting to avoid questions as to why she was armed to the teeth. After selecting and paying for her candies, the Immortal stuffed them into her overcoat pockets as she walked outside, slowly savoring her Reese's peanut butter cup.  
  
Turning her face up to the sun, Jordan was enjoying the warmth of its rays when a sudden gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes.  
  
**Jordan Waters...** a soft voice whispered.  
  
Puzzled, the Immortal tucked her hair behind her ears and looked around to see who called her. The streets were eerily empty; not a bird or other sound could be heard—the place felt as if it was holding it's breath. An ominous feeling came over Jordan as she noticed that her neck felt hot; touching the Lothlórien leaf, Jordan found it was the source of the pulsating heat. Suddenly, a bright light that came out of nowhere dazzled her, along with a feeling of intense nausea. Jordan took slow, deep breaths to steady herself when her chocolate threatened to come back up; then she was falling, falling, falling...putting her hands out, with a small cry, Jordan desperately struggled against the darkness that engulfed her. 


	3. Run for Your Life

Disclaimer: This is my very first fan fiction. I'm a big fan of the movie(s) and haven't had a chance to read the books...yet. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue.  
  
These Dreams  
--Heart  
  
Spare a little candle  
  
Save some light for me  
  
figures up ahead  
  
Moving in the trees  
  
White skin in linen  
  
Perfume on my wrist  
  
And the full moon that hangs over  
  
these dreams in the mist  
  
Darkness on the edge  
  
Shadows where I stand  
  
I search for the time  
  
On a watch with no hands  
  
I want to see you clearly  
  
Come closer than this  
  
But all I remember  
  
Are the dreams in the mist  
  
Is it cloak 'n dagger  
  
Could it be spring or fall  
  
I walk without a cut  
  
Through a stained glass wall  
  
Weaker in my eyesight  
  
The candle in my grip  
  
And words that have no form  
  
Are falling from my lips  
  
The sweetest song is silence  
  
That I've ever heard  
  
Funny how your feet  
  
In dreams never touch the earth  
  
In a wood full of princes  
  
Freedom is a kiss  
  
But the Prince hides his face  
  
From dreams in the mist  
  
Run For Your Life  
  
Darkness slowly gave way to consciousness as Jordan came to. Feeling like a jeepney had struck her for the second time in her life, the Immortal's senses returned. Sound . . . awareness. . . sensation. . . . . pain. Unmoving, she mentally did a body systems check.  
  
"Let's see; still breathing—definitely a good thing, fingers twitch, toes wiggle . . . am thinking, so head's still attached. What the hell happened!?" she asked herself.  
  
Save for a monumental headache, Jordan was physically intact. The throbbing pain in her head was reason enough for the woman to be still as she tried to figure out what exactly had happened. Surely the Highlander had come to her rescue (again) and laid her on the chaise lounge out on the patio; funny, she didn't remember the cushions being so hard.  
  
* * Not good. First the stabbing, now fainting. * * Jordan thought.  
  
Drawing an unsteady breath, instead of the comforting smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the convenience store's deli, the scent of . . . soil – rich and moist filled the woman's nose; the Immortal wondered if Duncan had recently fertilized his plants.  
  
"No," she decided, ". . . it can't be, for it'd smell like dung."  
  
Keeping her eyes closed, Jordan frowned and listened; therein was the problem. Instead of automobile traffic, came the sound of many leaves rustling in a soft breeze; songbirds, not seagulls called. She faintly heard the sound of running water. Something about it bothered her – Jordan realized there was no accompanying rattle of dishes and flatware being washed. There was no music coming from the Highlander's sound system, nor was the television reporting the news.  
  
Slowly opening her eyes, Jordan blinked against the sudden brightness; instead of brick and concrete structures, she was looking up at an immense canopy of green that towered above her, a bit of the blue sky peeked thru the lacy foliage. Her eyes darted about in alarm.  
  
* * Duncan doesn't have a whole slew of trees on his patio. * * she thought, bewildered.  
  
Jordan wasn't on a lounge in the Highlander's patio, nor was she lying on the concrete sidewalk outside the convenience store, but on the mossy, leaf covered floor of a . . . forest. With a groan, the Immortal forced herself to roll over on all fours; she paused, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. In her clenched right hand, the smashed remains of her peanut butter cup squished through her fingers, rapidly melting from the heat of her hand.  
  
"Waste not, want not." She murmured. With that thought, Jordan ate the remains of her candy.  
  
* * At least I have something to eat; I should've bought a sandwich instead. * * Jordan thought ruefully.  
  
"Duncan . . . ?" She tentatively called out. "This isn't funny anymore. If this if part of my training, don't you think it's a bit much?"  
  
Jordan rubbed the back of her head and stretched the cords of her neck, relieved when it helped ease the pain. The sound of birds calling ceased for a moment then resumed. Hearing no voices, the Immortal determined she was indeed alone. At least for the moment.  
  
"Okay, this is obviously another test. Maybe he wants to see if I remember how to live off the land or something. Fine." She muttered to herself.  
  
Knowing Duncan would show himself when he deemed the time right, Jordan climbed to her feet, unconcerned but thoroughly annoyed with the whole scenario. Dusting herself off, she was glad to find her weapons were intact. Better yet, her chocolates were still in her overcoat pockets! Jordan combed her fingers through her long hair, trying unsuccessfully to undo the tangles. Looking around, the Immortal would've been delighted with her surroundings, had it not been for the unusual circumstances.  
  
"There's something . . . different about this place." Jordan whispered to herself. There was an ancient, primeval feeling in the air. She didn't remember being in this part of the woods in Seacouver.  
  
"This must be a location only Duncan knows. Why can't I feel him?" Jordan asked herself.  
  
Confident the Highlander would find her, Jordan decided to do a little exploring, knowing the Buzz would alert her to Duncan's presence, and vice versa. She considered which direction to take. Deciding to go west, the Immortal was thankful for her well worn, knee-length black boots, which were padded by thick cotton socks.  
  
** At least I won't be getting blisters...hopefully.** She thought to herself.  
  
Walking at a leisurely pace, her booted footsteps made little noise. Feeling thirsty, Jordan followed the sound of water.  
  
"Where there's water, there should be people" she muttered.  
  
Jordan walked on, certain she'd have the last laugh and prove to the Highlander that though he could plunk her down in the middle of the forest, her (at least in her own mind) excellent sense of direction would lead her back to civilization. She still couldn't figure out how or why she fainted; Jordan had never fainted before in her life -- unless she counted the time when Duncan first told her about her Immortality. But that didn't count.  
  
Remembering Duncan's admonition to be ever alert, Jordan listened to the sounds around her, noting the absence of the Buzz. By the position of the sun, the Immortal estimated she had been walking for almost two hours. When the sun started its downward descent, Jordan started to get mildly alarmed.  
  
"Great. I've got till sundown and it's been over forty years since I had to start a fire, and I'm not even sure where I am; never mind that I don't have anything to s tart it with!" she said aloud. Coming to a small stream, Jordan cupped her hands together and was about to drink, but hesitated.  
  
"Wonder what kind of germs, microbes and other nasties are in the water? A filtration kit would be nice." She murmured wryly to herself.  
  
"It may not kill me, but it could make me really sick. Oh well." Jordan said softly to herself. Grimacing, she forced herself drink. Surprised at the sweet, clear taste, the Immortal drank her fill.  
  
Resuming her walk, Jordan hadn't gone far when she heard the rapid approach of heavy footsteps. Hiding behind a tree, she watched as the owners came into view and almost laughed out loud.  
  
** I've gotta be on candid camera. The make up crew of this flick is amazing. Well, I'm not about to get yelled at for ruining this take. ** Jordan thought, convinced she would be in the camera's sights. Looking around, she could see no production crew, no camera booms, key grips or best boys.  
  
The large group of actors came to a halt about 300 yards away and appeared to be having a rather heated discussion. Deciding to leave while unnoticed, too late did Jordan hear the snap of the twig as she turned. The Immortal was suddenly lifted off the ground by her throat, her back slammed against the tree she was hiding behind. Jordan's breath whooshed painfully out of her. Feet dangling a good foot off the ground, the Immortal was unable to draw a breath. Jordan clawed at the thick fingers tightening around her neck. This actor was taking his role far too seriously.  
  
** The makeup and costume department did their jobs well. ** she couldn't help but notice.  
  
The eyes were yellow, with strange pupils, the skin charred and he reeked with the unmistakable stench of decay and some other unidentifiable odor. Fanged, crooked teeth appeared as its lips drew back in a snarl; dirty, matted hair clung to it's scalp. Jordan's eyes were starting to bulge and her lungs screamed for air.  
  
It was definitely time to teach him some manners. The Immortal dug her thumbs into her attacker's eyes and lashed out with her foot, catching him in the groin. He howled, doubled over in pain, clutching his face as he dropped her. Jordan rolled away, gasping for breath as she rubbed her bruised throat, a torrent of choice swear words ready at her lips. Except the actor now held a strange looking scimitar and was coming straight at her.  
  
"I've got one, too." Jordan croaked. The actor spoke, but the prosthetics made it sound more like a gutteral snarl. Pulling out her Katana, Jordan deflected the blow. They circled each other warily.  
  
"Look, I didn't ruin the take, and I'm sorry if I was in the way -- I'll leave, and no one will know any better. I won't even ask for an autograph." She said, trying to appease the actor. Instead, he came at her again. This time, there was more force behind his blow.  
  
"Look -- I don't wanna ruin your costume, but you're asking for it, buddy." She warned.  
  
The Immortal sliced at his abdomen with her own return strike. Her Katana easily slashed thru the tough leather into the flesh below; Jordan couldn't help but feel a glimmer of satisfaction. The growl of pain from the actor was unlike anything she'd heard. Jordan glanced at the blood coating her blade; it was thick, black and viscous, not red. Hoping it was part of the makeup, she blocked another thrust, ducking and lightly stepping aside as he swung his scimitar at her head. Now she was angry.  
  
"I can play rough, too." Jordan said, grabbing a shuriken.  
  
Whirling, she slashed his cheek in one move. As he shrieked in pain, Jordan's eyes grew wide in disbelief as more of the dark blood welled from the deep cut she inflicted.  
  
"Whoa—this is real! He must be a scout." Jordan whispered to herself.  
  
She needed to end this quick, before his friends came. Horrified, Jordan quickly beheaded the creature; its black blood sprayed in pulsating bursts, some of it splashed onto her as the body fell to the ground. Not waiting to see how long it took his companions to discover him missing and find her, Jordan quickly flicked the tarry blood from her blade. The Immortal resheathed her Katana and shuriken as she turned and sprinted away as swiftly and silently as she could.  
  
** Duncan! Where the hell are you?! ** Jordan thought desperately as she ran. Ducking beneath tree limbs, heedless of her direction, the Immortal dared not look over her shoulder; she needed to put as much distance between herself and those . . . things.  
  
Behind her, she could hear animal-like grunts, screeches and the sound of undergrowth and branches snapping. They were closing in. Fear gave her the speed she needed, but even then, she was starting to tire. Running had never been a favorite sport or activity for her to do. The Immortal knew she was in trouble; she couldn't outrun them, and Jordan was unfamiliar with the terrain.  
  
"So be it." Jordan said grimly.  
  
Coming to a stop in a small clearing, the woman braced her hands on her knees and took a moment to catch her breath. Quickly she readied more shurikens in one hand and gripped her Katana in the other. Raising her sword to her lips, it gleamed in the sunlight as she placed a kiss on the blade above the hilt.  
  
** My friend and defender. ** Eyes closed, Jordan cleared her mind.  
  
Focusing on the coming battle, Jordan didn't notice the leaf suspended around her neck started to glow. The creatures were almost upon her. As they appeared in the clearing, a brilliant flash of light momentarily blinded her pursuers; strangely, Jordan wasn't affected. Taking advantage of it, the Immortal drew back and threw a sidearm fastball, swiftly letting fly four of her shurikens, pleased when they imbedded themselves in their targets.  
  
The horrific creatures clutched their throats as they fell to the ground, where they lay twitching then stilled. Enraged to see their fallen companions, the remaining creatures rushed towards the frightened Immortal, their weapons drawn as the bright light faded.  
  
***** ********* **********  
  
The War of the Ring is over. The Dark Lord Sauron had been defeated. Through the free lands still roamed renegade bands of Orcs and Uruk-hai -- the scattered remnants of the Dark Army once commanded by the White Wizard Saruman, before his defeat at the hands of Gandalf the White.  
  
Mounted on a white stallion sat Legolas, son of Tharanduil, King of Mirkwood; Gimli, son of Gloin sat on the smaller gelding that carried their supplies. The two Members of the Fellowship were traveling through the forest en route to the Elven land of Rivendell when Legolas' heightened senses prickled with awareness, warning him. Listening to the whispers of the trees, Legolas murmured,  
  
"There is a strange presence in the woods, danger is near." A bright flash of light caught their attention. Gimli harrumphed and said to his companion,  
  
"What say you we look for the source of yonder light? Tis been a while since we've had some adventure."  
  
Turning his head, Legolas flashed the Dwarf a half smile; the gleam in the handsome Elf's eyes belied his eagerness. Whispering Elvish words into his mount's ear, Arod broke into a swift gallop towards the flash of light. Tied to Arod, Gimli's mount kept pace. As they neared, the sounds of combat greeted them. Gimli fell off his mount's back, rolling to his feet, his battle-axe was drawn and held ready.  
  
Legolas leapt off Arod's back as well, his great war-bow, a gift from Galadriel, notched. What greeted them was a sight, indeed. Before them was a slip of a Man, more likely a youth, with exceptionally long hair battling two Orcs simultaneously. It was a decidedly uneven match, for the Orcs looked to be having sport with the youth; in the background, their fell companions waited impatiently for a chance to jump into the fray.  
  
There was something about the scene before him troubled the Elf. He noted the bodies of slain Orcs, yet the youth was apparently alone. Legolas wondered where the stranger's companion was. Slain? Mayhaps that was the reason the youth was left to fight by himself, the Wood Elf mused. Spying the two arrivals, the waiting Orcs rushed to engage them, weapons drawn, bloodlust in their evil eyes.  
  
"They're mine!" roared Gimli, as he fearlessly rushed to meet the oncoming Orcs.  
  
Knowing the Dwarf was in no immediate danger, Legolas took the opportunity to study the stranger's unusual fighting style as he notched and held his bow at the ready. The Orc on the Man's right was about to deal him a fatal blow to the ribs when Legolas shot him with a well-placed arrow. He watched as the Man ran the other Orc thru with his unusual sword. Perhaps the Man possessed some skill with the sword after all.  
  
* * *  
  
Driven by the fierce will to survive, Jordan fought the creature before her; however, she was unused to fighting multiple opponents for extended periods of time. After all, only one Immortal at a time is allowed to challenge another.  
  
** The rules of the Game obviously don't apply here, ** she thought to herself.  
  
Arms aching, her hair and body drenched in sweat, Jordan was starting to tire; her strikes were becoming more defensive than offensive when she felt the Buzz of Duncan's arrival. She could've cried from relief when the creature on her right sprouted an arrow from it's head before falling to the ground. The others had thankfully rushed off to engage Duncan. Fighting with renewed energy, Jordan doggedly concentrated on the one before her.  
  
** He's strong. ** The Immortal thought as she blocked a strike.  
  
The Orc's momentary distraction with his companion's demise gave her the opportunity she needed; Jordan brought her blade up and ran him thru the abdomen with her Katana. Breathing hard, she allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction as he let out a shriek; it quickly disappeared when he grabbed the blade, pulling it—and her—closer, before he backhanded her across the face. The blow snapped Jordan's head around and sent her spinning to the ground, where she landed hard.  
  
* * You really do see stars. * * she thought, dazed.  
  
Shaking her head to clear her vision, Jordan desperately wanted nothing more than to rest and catch her breath, but the creature above her had an arrow in its throat, and was in the process of falling on top of her. Not wanting to get impaled so soon after her recent 'incident', the Immortal forced her tired limbs to move. Scrambling away, Jordan didn't get far as she was firmly yet gently pulled away and set on her feet. Jordan's exhaustion was replaced by righteous anger that infused her body with strength as she turned to give Duncan a well-deserved tongue-lashing.  
  
"Duncan--"  
  
Only it wasn't Duncan who stood before her. Shocked, the Immortal took an involuntary step backwards and stumbled over the dead creature's body. She would've fallen again, if her rescuer hadn't reached out and steadied her. Her rescuer was, for lack of a better word, simply gorgeous.  
  
**Perfection.** her mind whispered.  
  
The man's features were flawless, symmetrical, unblemished, and...beautiful. Tall, lean of build, his long, blonde hair was drawn back, away from his forehead; at each temple were smaller braids, which kept his hair neatly away from his face. However, it was his eyes that held her. Strikingly blue, it made her think of the sky and the ocean on a warm summer day. Dressed in silvery brown clothes, with knee-high boots, he held a large bow in his left hand; Jordan could see arrows peeking out from his back. That explained the arrows in the creatures.  
  
** I hope his name isn't Aries. ** a detached part of her mind thought.  
  
Catching sight of his companion, Jordan saw he was about a foot shorter than she. Stocky and powerfully built, he had a great mass of coarse, reddish-brown hair, making it hard to tell where his hair ended and his beard began. Confused, Jordan looked around, expecting to see Duncan, but it was just the three of them, and the dead bodies that littered the forest floor. 


	4. Another Time, Another Place

Disclaimer: This is my very first fan fiction. I'm a big fan of the movie(s) and haven't had a  
chance to read the books...yet. Constructive criticism, suggestions and  
feedback are welcome.  
Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong  
to their respective,  
copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please,  
don't sue.  
  
STAND BY ME  
  
Stand By Me was composed by Ben E. King, Jerry Leibere & Mike Stoller  
and recorded by Ben E. King in 1961, for the first time.  
When the night has come  
  
And the land is dark  
  
And the moon is the only light we'll see  
  
No I won't be afraid  
  
Oh I won't be afraid  
  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me  
  
So darlin' darlin' stand by me  
If the sky that we look upon  
  
Should tumble and fall  
  
Or the mountain should crumble to the sea  
  
I won't cry,  
  
I won't cry  
  
No I won't shed a tear  
  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me  
  
Another time, Another Place  
  
"Are you all right?" The tall man asked her; his quiet voice was somehow musical in tone.  
  
The Immortal was still trying to rationalize how the four words could possibly sound so wonderful coming from his lips when she realized he expected a reply of some kind. Jordan could only nod 'yes' as she gingerly worked her sore jaw.  
  
"Well, Laddie, how many to your count? I have six!" came a gruff voice behind them.  
  
"Two." Replied the tall man.  
  
When he turned back to look at his companion, Jordan caught a glimpse of his pointed ear; her eyes widened in disbelief.  
  
** This is just getting better and better ** Jordan thought, trying to stifle her grin.  
  
"My lady, seeing as we are comrades in arms, perhaps we'd best know your name." The shorter man addressed Jordan.  
  
Squinting up at Jordan, the stocky fellow's eyes were almost hidden beneath two enormously bushy eyebrows. Jordan smiled as she got a better look at the sturdy fellow; his ruddy complexion, gravelly voice and gruff manner was the exact opposite of his tall companion . Jordan smiled, wondering where in Scotland the short man came from. His brogue was so much like Duncan's, except it was more pronounced.  
  
"My name is Jordan Waters, and I don't think I'm in Seacouver, Washington anymore, am I?" she replied.  
  
"Seacouver, Washington? Nay, Lady; you are in the northern most outskirts of Trollshaw Forest. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, and this is Gimli, son of Glóin. We are journeying to the Elven land of Rivendell; mayhaps you should accompany us." The tall, beautiful One said, looking around.  
  
** Elves?! Oookay, that's rich. I'm going to wake up any moment now and discover I've stumbled into the Twilight Zone ** Jordan thought to herself.  
  
The Immortal doubted she was in any serious trouble; however, she wanted to make sure they didn't get any ideas – just in case.  
  
"I'm not alone." Jordan said quickly  
  
She bristled at the way the Beautiful Man's eyebrow raised slightly. The Elf seriously doubted a lone woman was solely responsible for the carnage before him, yet the trees whispered to him, confirming this Jordan Waters is the strange presence they spoke of, and -- save for the woman and Orcs, no one else had passed thru the woods. A puzzled expression marred Legolas' perfect, serene countenance as he continued to survey the gory clearing.  
  
"Where is your companion?" he asked.  
  
"He's . . . uh, somewhere near." Jordan replied, trying to sound confident. "I'm sure he'll be here soon." She added hastily.  
  
"Lady Waters, save for you, Gimli and myself, there is no one here."  
  
"How do you know that?" she asked, suspicious.  
  
"I know it." Legolas answered.  
  
"How do you know it?" she persisted.  
  
"The trees said it was so." The Elf patiently explained.  
  
The Immortal looked at him with a dubious expression on her face; his answer was so matter-of-fact, that he might as well have said that trees could walk. The scary part is that Jordan honestly believed the Elf would believe it.  
  
* * He talks to trees. No – the trees talk to him. Too bad he's crazy. * * Jordan bit her lip.  
  
This was getting old really fast. She wondered if he hugged trees as well as talked with them. He must be the Dr. Dolittle of the botanical variety. Great. Gesturing to the dead creatures, Legolas spoke.  
  
"Orcs still roam parts of the land and I believe Lord Elrond will wish to know they are ranging closer to Rivendell. You will come with us." The Elf said.  
  
Searching their faces, Jordan nodded slowly; it didn't appear she had a whole lot of choice in the matter. More importantly, the woman did not want to be alone in a strange land, with even stranger creatures when night came. Like it or not, she had to go along with this charade, at least for now.  
  
"I need to get some things before we go." Jordan said.  
  
Gathering her last shuriken, Jordan pulled free the two arrows Legolas shot, examining them quickly before handing them to the Elf; she couldn't see a manufacturer's logo on the shafts. The Elf accepted the projectiles wordlessly, his bright eyes never leaving Jordan's face. He noticed the woman seemed preoccupied; she appeared to be looking for someone; perhaps her companion, mayhap this 'Dung Can' who had abandoned her to her fate, for there was none alive, save the woman, the Dwarf and himself.  
  
"Thank you, Legolas and Gimli for taking me with you to the Elven land called 'Rivendell.'" Jordan said rather loudly as she glanced towards the tree line.  
  
Legolas smiled. The woman had spoken so loud, in fact, that she all but bellowed the words. Too bad it was but a wasted effort on her part. Gimli gave the Elf a look that spoke volumes. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Legolas motioned for the Dwarf to remain silent. The Elf was going to enjoy the ride to Rivendell even more, now that they had acquired a new, albeit curious, traveling companion.  
  
Rolling the last Orc over with her foot, Jordan freed her Katana with a grunt and flicked the tarry, black flood from its blade, unmindful of the Elf watching her every move. The Immortal dawdled in order to give the Highlander more time to join the odd party. Waiting patiently, the shorter man cleaned his axe. Jordan's ire rose a notch when her Mentor chose to remain hidden.  
  
* * I'll get you for this, Duncan. * * Jordan seethed inwardly, imagining the payback she'd give.  
  
Satisfied she left nothing behind, Jordan looked at Legolas, who gave a piercing whistle; on cue, the sound of hoof beats could be heard. Into the clearing galloped two horses, a white and brown one. She noticed the white one didn't have a saddle; the other did and was laden with packs. Helping his stout companion onto the brown horse, Legolas held his hand out to Jordan.  
  
"You will ride with me." He said.  
  
Jordan hesitated. Although she loved horses, riding them was a different story.  
  
Seeing her pause, Legolas said, "Arod is quite gentle, and I am with you. Do not fear, my lady." His voice was strangely soothing. Jordan looked hopefully at the tree line one last time, scanning the area; Jordan sent a silent plea for her Mentor to show himself.  
  
Taking his hand, a small jolt of electricity seemed to pass between them. Jordan almost snatched her hand away, had he not held it firmly. She wondered if he felt it too. Glancing up at him, the Immortal was captivated by his eyes.  
  
** Its so unfair – why do guys always get the most amazing eyes? ** she wondered to herself, mesmerized.  
  
Impossibly blue in color, they made the Immortal think of the summer sky and the sleepy blue ocean on a warm, summer day. Realizing she was staring, Jordan flushed before she turned to look at the horse. The Immortal wondered how on earth she was going to get on the horse's back without something to stand on, when Legolas grasped her waist and lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather.  
  
** That's it, no more chocolate ** she vowed.  
  
Seated astride, Jordan stole a glance at Legolas, their eyes meeting again. Blushing furiously, she looked away, pretending to scan the horizon and missing the smile on Legolas' face. With a graceful leap, the Elf mounted the horse and took his place behind her. Reaching around her to grasp the reins, Jordan felt his warm breath on her ear; the sensation caused a pleasant shiver to race down her spine, and the heat of his body felt good on her back.  
  
** I could get used to this. ** she thought.  
  
With a last glance at the clearing, Jordan took a deep breath in as Legolas urged his mount forward. She hoped Duncan was safe, wherever he was.  
  
The shorter man proved to be quite an entertaining travel companion. Gimli rode beside them, regaling Jordan with stories of their travels and experiences, to which she only listened to half of. She was relieved that he didn't ask questions about her, or her odd situation, and she took the opportunity to view the passing scenery. Needing something to do with her hands, Jordan started to braid tiny sections of Arod's mane.  
  
As Jordan braided, she studied Legolas' hands, noting that his long, elegant fingers were surprisingly clean. She could feel the strength in his arms as she rested hers on top of his; glancing down, the design on his wrist guards caught her attention; curious, Jordan's fingers lightly traced the tooling on the leather bracers that covered Legolas' arms from wrist to just below the elbows. Jordan wondered what it would feel like to be held in his arms.  
  
** Stop that!** Jordan sternly told herself.  
  
** You're acting hormonal! You don't even know him. No one this fabulous looking could possibly be heterosexual. ** she thought. Knowing her luck, the odd couple were probably lovers who were kind enough to lend a hand to a Stranger in distress.  
  
"That is the great Tree of Greenwood, symbolizing my home of Mirkwood; my father is the King of the woodland realm." Legolas spoke softly into Jordan's ear.  
  
For reasons unknown, the Elf was strangely pleased that this stranger took an interest in his belongings.  
  
* * Hmm. Gorgeous and a 'Prince' to boot. This is definitely a fairy tale. ** The Immortal thought.  
  
"I've never seen anything like this." Jordan said softly.  
  
"Perhaps I will show it to you one day." Legolas said; his warm breath felt like a lover's caress on the Immortal's cheek.  
  
Unfortunately, Jordan was not planning to stay in Middle-earth long enough to see this 'Mirkwood' - not if she could help it, but the Immortal didn't tell the Elf that. As they rode, the woman shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Riding a horse – bareback no less – was definitely harder than Jordan ever imagined. And it was hard on her bottom as well; there was no buffer to cushion the inside of her thighs (which were starting to protest the continuous motion of the horse beneath), and the lack padding also made the Immortal acutely aware of the fact that she wasn't the riding type.  
  
Exhausted from the day's exertions and determined to ignore the discomfort she was feeling, Jordan closed her eyes. In her mind, the woman replayed the past events, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together; she wondered how she happened to get caught up in a fantasy novel. Before she knew it, Jordan dozed off, and her body relaxed against the Elf. Feeling the change in her posture, Legolas adjusted the awkward position of the woman's body against his, acting as a makeshift pillow so she would be more comfortable.  
  
As for the Crown Prince, rarely was the Elf surprised; however, when he and the Dwarf arrived at the clearing and assisted the stranger, Legolas expected to look into the eyes of a relieved man, not the flashing, angry eyes of a proud female. The Wood Elf studied the sleeping woman he held in his arms. The position of Jordan's head exposed the skin of her neck, which looked soft and inviting. As he contemplated the texture of her skin, Legolas picked out the leaves and twigs from her dark hair, loosening the mud from its strands.  
  
Unable to contain his curiosity, Legolas breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her Jordan's skin. He detected the scent of sandalwood and strawberries, a different but not unpleasant combination. It was unique. Continuing his visual assessment of the strange woman, the Elf's brow creased; he frowned when he saw the corner of her lip was caked with dried blood and the deepening bruise on her cheek where the Orc struck her.  
  
The Mirkwood Elf could not ever remember seeing a mortal woman fight as well or as skillfully as this Jordan Waters did—especially when he realized the stranger to be a woman. This Daughter of Man possessed several skills worthy of a warrior: her striking eyes the color of grass shone with courage and intelligence, and she did not simper or cower in front of strangers, but held herself with confidence. Despite the Manly traits (and the decidedly unfeminine name) she possessed, Jordan fortunately did have undeniably feminine features, as well as the heart of a woman.  
  
The Mirkwood Elf was well aware of the effect he had on maidens both Elven and human alike -- and much to the Wood Elf's dismay, even some Men. And Jordan was neither indifferent, nor uninterested, for Legolas saw the blush that crept into the woman's cheeks when he caught her staring at him. What startled the noble Elf was that fact that it was mutual. Legolas was so disturbed by the realization, that he immediately turned his thoughts elsewhere.  
  
Is she, in fact, the source of the light they saw? The Wood Elf had not thought to ask the trees. Why is she here, what is her purpose, and who is this 'Dung Can' she called for? The Stranger's weapons were unlike any he had seen in all of his travels, yet she used them with ease and familiarity. Her manner of speech and clothing is odd, and yet . . . he was drawn to her. Legolas' curiosity was piqued. There would be time enough for answers. With the sun rapidly sinking, they had to make camp for the night and continue on to Rivendell at first light with all haste. After finding a suitable spot for the night, Gimli set about making a makeshift pallet; cradling the slumbering woman in his arms, Legolas dismounted and carried the Immortal to where the Dwarf waited.  
  
"Well, lad, I shall see what fruit and berries your beloved forest has to offer us. Mayhaps you should stay with our guest." With that, the Dwarf disappeared into the trees.  
  
Setting Jordan down gently and satisfied she was comfortable for the moment, Legolas went about gathering firewood and the material needed for kindling. Striking flint together, a spark flew and the tinder smoldered before the combustible material finally caught fire. Legolas expertly fed the flames until a sizeable fire blazed to life. Sitting across from Jordan, through the dancing flames the Elf watched the pretty puzzle sleep. His keen eyes studied her; the woman's face was smudged with dirt and Orc blood. Given the extent of her injuries, it could've been worse. Far worse. Orcs were known to use women for sport in the worst possible ways. . . and the women seldom lasted long during the brutal, violent and degrading assaults. Legolas turned his attention to his gear, inspecting his bow and arrows. The shadows had lengthened considerably when Gimli returned with wild apples, an assortment of berries, and a brace of fat, young coneys -- rabbit-like creatures the Dwarf cleaned, dressed and had roasting over a spit in short order.  
  
"How fares the lady?" the Dwarf asked the Elf as he sat beside his friend.  
  
Legolas was saved from replying as Jordan let out a soft groan. Feeling like she had been dropkicked to the moon and had landed on her face, Jordan awoke to the sound of a merrily crackling fire and a gruff voice speaking.  
  
** Okay, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up** Jordan thought to herself.  
  
Opening her eyes, the Immortal saw the odd couple was still with her. Sniffing appreciatively, she also smelled what she hoped was dinner roasting over the fire. Slowly and painfully the woman sat up; her sore body reminded her every inch on the way up of her recent ordeal. Jordan was pleasantly startled when she felt Legolas' strong arm behind her back, and a gentle hand by her elbow as he helped her up. Trying not to gape at him, the Immortal smiled her thanks. One minute the Beautiful One was on the other side of the fire, the next instant he was helping her sit up.  
  
** I didn't even see him move! ** she thought. Legolas watched her  
closely.  
  
"Come, there is a small stream not far from here. Your wounds must be tended." Feeling self-conscious, Jordan's cheeks started to burn with embarrassment. She resisted the urge to run her hands thru her hair.  
  
** I must look awful!** Jordan thought wryly, as the Elf helped her stand fully upright.  
  
Gimli tossed Legolas a small leather satchel as he led Jordan away. Coming to a stream, she gingerly lowered herself onto some rocks at the water's edge, wincing at her sore bottom. Hunkering down in front of her, Legolas took a cloth out of the satchel, and dipped it into the cool water. Gently cupping her face, the Elf felt the small jolt of electricity again. Ignoring its implications, he concentrated on his task as the woman studied him intently.  
  
"What are you?" Jordan asked softly.  
  
Legolas paused in his task. For a moment, the Prince did not know how to respond to the question. He was not surprised the woman did not immediately recognize one of the First Born, for Elves seldom sought the company of Men. Legolas did, however, expect her to be familiar with the fact of the Fair Ones' existence, given the Alliance between the Races, as well as certain distinctive physical traits characteristic of Elves. Since she knew neither, the Wood Elf decided to overlook her ignorance.  
  
"I am an Elf." He replied before continuing his task.  
  
"You're an Elf." Jordan repeated. Legolas nodded solemnly.  
  
"If you're an Elf, is Gimli a Gnome?" Legolas raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Gimli is a Dwarf." He corrected her.  
"Oh." Jordan said, falling silent once more. It didn't last long as she had another question in mind.  
  
"What do you call this place?" she asked.  
  
"Middle-earth." The Elf replied, watching her reaction. She seemed deeply troubled.  
  
"And you are a stranger to this land." he said quietly.  
  
Jordan smiled. It didn't take a whole lot of genius to figure that out.  
  
** Actually I'm from a galaxy far, far away ** Jordan wanted to say. A thousand replies came to her mind before finally settling on a suitable reply. The Immortal cautiously answered her Elf-nurse.  
  
"Yes, I come from a very far land, and I'm not really sure how I got  
here."  
  
** There, I'm not lying but what do I say next? 'Take me to your  
leader'? ** she wondered to herself. As Legolas worked, Jordan took the opportunity to study him.  
  
** How is it possible for his face to be both beautiful and masculine at the same time? * * she wondered. It was a paradox.  
  
* * Timeless—like a living sculpture. I wonder how old is he? One thing's for sure, he's no Keebler Elf! I could stare at him forever. * * she thought.  
  
Jordan's sharp intake of breath told Legolas that her lip was especially tender.  
  
"My apologies. I do not wish to cause you further pain, my lady." Legolas said.  
  
"I don't wish that either." Jordan responded with a smile. Legolas' lips twitched briefly as well.  
  
Taking great care, the Elf continued to gently bathe Jordan's face. Reaching into the satchel, the Mirkwood Prince pulled out a small wooden box. Opening the hinged lid, Legolas dipped an elegant index finger into the clear, odorless ointment and smoothed it over the woman's cheek.  
  
"This salve will ease the pain. The Healers at Rivendell are noted for their skills." Legolas said. Finished, the Elf inspected the woman's face.  
  
Jordan's left cheek, though discolored, seemed lighter than when he first observed it; the Mirkwood Prince briefly wondered how that was possible as he inspected the rest of her person. His gaze lingered on her lips, which were naturally coral in color; despite the amount of blood he'd bathed away, there was no cut at the corner of her mouth. In fact, the skin was unbroken.  
  
Legolas thought it very odd. Perhaps he'd been mistaken about her injury; however, the battle-seasoned Elf knew what he saw. With his own eyes – that were capable of telling the difference between a finch and a sparrow from a league away -- the Elf witnessed the Orc strike the woman; that her lip was whole defied explanation. Puzzled, Legolas pushed it to the back of his mind as he met Jordan's gaze. The vivid green was a rarity among mortal women, especially with hair as black as the night and skin that, though fair, was not quite like the flawless porcelain of the Elves, nor like that of the Horse Lords of the Riddermark. Of all the Races the Elf encountered in his wide travels, Legolas had not seen anyone quite like Jordan Waters; yes, he decided, this unusual beauty was indeed very fair to look upon -- for a Daughter of Man.  
  
"Thank you, your Highness." Jordan said softly; perhaps it was well and good that she remained unaware of the Elf's assessment.  
  
"Legolas, my lady." The Mirkwood Elf replied. One day he would rule in his father's stead; for now the Prince had every intention of enjoying his time unfettered by the crown.  
  
"Then please, call me Jordan." She replied.  
  
As gracefully as a cat, Legolas rose and held his hand out to her. When Jordan took it, they both felt the sensation again. Helping the woman up, the Wood Elf noted the stiffness with which she moved.  
  
"I'm not much of a rider." The Immortal offered by way of explanation.  
  
Looking up at him, Jordan smiled, and stopped when her face reminded her of its injury. Legolas smiled in return, making her heart skip a beat, though he said nothing. His silence made the woman nervous; not wanting to say something foolish, Jordan decided to follow his lead. As they walked back to camp, the Immortal noticed he hadn't removed his hand from the small of her back.  
  
Gimli was seated near the campfire, puffing away on a pipe; the acrid smell assaulted Jordan's nose. Apparently the Elf didn't care for the nasty habit, either, for he frowned in disapproval. Spying them, the Dwarf gave no indication he cared one whit what the Elf thought, for he continued to puff away contentedly on his pipe before he spoke.  
  
"So, there is a woman there beneath all that dirt." Gimli said, with a hearty grin.  
  
At least Jordan was fairly certain it was a grin; it was a bit difficult to tell with all the coarse, red hair that was in the way. Wincing as she smiled at him, Jordan took a seat across from the Dwarf. Passing tin plates around, Gimli continued to speak.  
  
"I'll have you know the courtesy of the Dwarves has not lessened, though our numbers have. Eat up Lass, then ye can tell us how ye came about fighting Orcs on your own."  
  
Gimli's voice had a Scott's like burr to it; the familiar sound once again reminded Jordan of Duncan. She missed the Highlander desperately and fervently hoped for the umpteenth time that her Teacher was safe -- wherever he was. Despite the short fellow's gruff and brash manner, Jordan sensed the Dwarf had a kind heart. Taking a cautious bite of the stew, Jordan found its taste was similar to chicken, but with a subtle, gamey hint to it. Eating slowly, between bites, Jordan gave her unlikely companions the condensed version of her arrival; Gimli and Legolas listened without interrupting, and occasionally glanced at one another.  
  
"...and that's when you came." Jordan finished her tale.  
  
Legolas sensed a myriad of conflicting emotions radiating from her; given the circumstances, he decided there was nothing in her words to cause doubt. Everything about her testified to the fact she is, in fact, a stranger to Middle-earth.  
  
"How is it you wield a sword with skill? Are women in your world Shield-Maidens?" Gimli asked. Jordan raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar term.  
  
** Okay; that must mean a she-warrior or something. I can do Ebonics, medical jargon and plain English. I guess its time to brush up on my Queen's-Old-English English. ** the Immortal thought; unfazed, Jordan answered.  
  
"Not every woman. I'm from a class of people who are...competent with swords; we, uh, practice from time to time."  
  
"Well, 'tis a good thing the pointy-ear and I came when we did, 'ere ye'd be in a bad way." The Dwarf said sternly. Jordan nodded in agreement; of that, she had no doubt at all.  
  
Gimli took a long draught from his water skin and emitted an impressive belch before blotting his mouth with his wrist. Jordan smiled. As they finished their meal, the Immortal half-expected the Dwarf to wipe his mouth with the end of his coarse beard. She was strangely disappointed when the Gimli did not. Instead, he used his sleeve. Legolas, watching Jordan, gave her a small smile, rolling his eyes at his companion's decidedly rough ways. To stifle her laugh, Jordan took another bite of stew.  
  
Gimli tossed the skin to Jordan, who caught it out of reflex. Thanking the Dwarf, Jordan swallowed her stew; resisting the urge to wipe the mouthpiece, Jordan lifted the skin to her lips. The Immortal tried to not think about what germs the Dwarf may have – not that she'd catch any illness from him. Jordan took a small sip, and then offered it to Legolas, who declined with a shake of his head. Fluidly rising to his feet, the Elf walked to Gimli's mount and pulled out a cloak from one of the saddle packs.  
  
"I shall take the first watch. Fangon (Bearded One), I trust you will see that she is comfortable."  
  
Without a glance at the woman, Legolas turned away and melted into the forest as he fastened his cloak. Shooting the Elf a look of annoyance mingled with affection, Gimli told Jordan,  
  
"Pay ye no heed to that, Jordan. The pointy-ear knows Dwarvish hospitality rivals that of Elves." Gimli muttered grouchily.  
  
The latter part was said quite loudly and directed towards the trees. With a laugh, Jordan thanked Gimli for the stew and helped him tidy up. Returning to the stream, the Dwarf and the woman washed the dishes in the cold water, using clean sand to scour the plates, which they set by the fire to dry before packing them away again. After banking the fire, Gimli and the Immortal settled down for the night. Soon snores came from the Dwarf's side. Jordan had a much harder time falling asleep, especially since she wasn't a camping enthusiast. Twigs and rocks were digging into her back, and the ground was hard and cold, despite the blankets she lay upon. In her mind's eye, Duncan's face appeared, filled with concern and worry for her. Intuition told her that if indeed she was really in Middle- earth, she would not be seeing the Highlander for a while – possibly not for a very, very long time.  
  
** Do you even know I'm gone? ** Jordan thought mournfully.  
  
The woman viciously punched the rolled up spare cloak that doubled as her makeshift pillow in an effort to get comfortable. It was useless. The Immortal sat up; Jordan noticed the stiffness in her body had eased considerably, and her face did not feel as bad, either.  
  
** I'm glad we heal quickly, ** she thought.  
  
Inspecting the bark for lizards, bugs and snakes, before she leaned her back upon it, the woman was glad to see none. Jordan drew her knees up and rested her chin on them as she looked up at the vast, starry sky above.  
  
** How do I get home? ** She wondered; the homesickness and fear washed over her full force.  
  
Staring at the fire until the dancing flames became glowing embers, Jordan longed for cable TV, chocolate chip ice cream and a Philly cheese steak sandwich. Without the light of the fire to drive the shadows back, the darkness closed in on her and the deep shadows took on sinister shapes. Swallowing hard, Jordan's pulse quickened as her overactive imagination worked overtime, conjuring more of the horrific Orc creatures lurking in the dark, just waiting to sink the clawed hands into her once her eyes closed. there was something about the open space that made her feel terribly insecure. The Immortal needed to feel the security of four solid walls around her; lacking that comforting assurance, she curled into a ball; the Immortal clutched her Katana, ready to draw it if necessary. She jumped when the ominous hoot of an owl and the dry, brittle sound of leaves skittered along the forest floor in the night breeze; the hairs on the nape of Jordan's neck stood up as Dread's icy cold fingers leisurely stroked the back of her neck.  
  
Forcing herself to breathe slowly and evenly, Jordan closed her eyes and recited nursery rhymes in her mind to distract herself. When that didn't work, thoughts of home and her cozy bedroom filled her mind. Instead of comforting her, the thoughts intensified the feelings of loss and uncertainty.  
  
"Funny how you don't know what you've got till it's gone." The Immortal muttered uneasily to herself.  
  
Thinking of what she missed helped her focus on something other than her vivid imaginings. Jordan missed the basic necessities: electricity, running water from the tap, and most of all -- indoor plumbing. Born into privilege, the Immortal never had to go without toilet paper – until now. Though not one to wallow in self-pity, tonight the Immortal thought just this once it was completely justified. Feeling sorry for herself, Jordan sniffled before giving in to tears; her quiet sobs were masked by the Dwarf's loud snores. Drying her tears, Jordan felt somewhat better. The Immortal knew she had no choice but to make the best of the impossibly real situation. Rubbing her swollen eyes, the woman yawned hugely and laid her head back against the tree and listened to the Dwarf snore. Despite herself, Jordan gave a small laugh, feeling just a touch hysterical with the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  
  
"At least there aren't seven of you guys." Jordan muttered to herself.  
  
Watching the glowing embers, Jordan wiped her eyes once more on her overcoat sleeves and sighed; the cathartic effect of her cry and her strange day made her red-rimmed, puffy eyes grow heavy with sleep. Jordan laid back down upon her pallet and closed her eyes.  
  
* * *  
  
The night had a thousand eyes, and many pairs of them – insect, mammal and reptilian alike watched the Wood Elf pass as he silently patrolled the forest. Cocking an ear, the Prince listened to the quiet chirping of crickets; Legolas mentally cataloged the sounds of nocturnal creatures engaged in the trials of life unheard by mortal ears: among them was the whoosh of night owls winging their way thru the dark in search of a meal, and the prey they sought scurrying for shelter. The subtle change in the way the owl's wings beat the air informed Legolas a life was given up to perpetuate life. As the owl flew away with its meal, the Mirkwood Prince listened to the voices that Wood Elves were attuned to.  
  
The trees sighed that all was well, and only because of the trusted sources of information did the Elf lower his guard. Legolas' thoughts turned to Jordan Waters. There was something about her -- something about this odd woman's presence was strangely . . . soothing to him. Though Legolas pledged Jordan his assistance in returning 'home', the Elf was certain he did not want her to return . . . just yet; Jordan was a mystery that demanded exploration.  
  
After the War of the Ring, Legolas and Gimli traveled throughout Arda; together, the unlikely pair explored the wonders of Middle-earth, reveling in the beauty they encountered, and sorrowing over the ugly scars war inflicted upon the land. As they neared the end of their journey, from the highest tower of the White City, Legolas caught his first glimpse of the sea. The faint cry of the gulls stirred the longing dormant in his heart, yet the siren call was not yet irresistible, for the Elf was determined to remain in Middle-earth for a time. What the Elf also discovered after his first glimpse of the sea, was that he longed for...something.  
  
The restlessness Legolas felt in his soul grew; so much so that the Elf often considered proposing that the Dwarf join him on yet another far flung journey. However, the Mirkwood Prince was surprised to realize the restless feeling had all but disappeared with Jordan's appearance. Owing the reprieve to the woman's interesting . . . dilemma, Legolas thought no more of the matter. Instead, his mind wandered back to the moments when he and Jordan touched, and he felt 'It'. The Elf was troubled; the only other time Legolas felt the disconcerting sensation was with his first lover, Willröwyn. They were together for 100 years before an Orc killed her, and her death haunted him in the many seasons that followed. Since then, the Elf had taken numerous lovers during his long life, but he never forgot Willröwyn, and occasionally wondered about what might have been. To feel it again with a mortal was both disturbing and fascinating. Uneasy, Legolas put it out of his mind as he made his way back to camp.  
  
Jordan would be there. In the span of mere moments, he was inexplicably drawn to this strange woman's side. From her child like wonder at something so simple as his wrist bracers, to the unguarded delight in her surroundings, she captivated him. A maiden -- a Daughter of Man, of all things.  
  
#  
  
Jordan was drifting off to sleep when she felt The Buzz. Her eyes flew open as she raised up on her elbows, her hand automatically reaching for her Katana. Hoping it was Duncan, Jordan was both thrilled and disappointed to see Legolas appear in the faint light of the glowing embers. He, on the other hand, was taken aback that she heard him. The only mortal who could hear an Elf approach was Aragorn, but he was fostered by Elves, so it was understandable. That the woman was able to do so as well added another layer of mystery to Jordan Waters.  
  
"You should be resting, Jordan; we ride at first light." Legolas said softly.  
  
Silently making his way over to the Immortal, Legolas sat beside Jordan and studied her profile in the moonlight. Jordan didn't answer as she stared at the faintly glowing embers; long moments passed in silence before she finally spoke.  
  
"Did you see anyone?" Jordan asked hopefully.  
  
"Not a soul." Legolas replied.  
  
"How far did you go?" she asked.  
  
"Twelve miles in all directions." Jordan's eyes widened, amazed.  
  
"Did you really?" the Elf's steady gaze was all the answer she needed.  
  
"Why do you not rest?" Legolas asked.  
  
"I can't sleep. None of this makes sense. I keep thinking I'll wake up and find that this is all a weird, crazy dream—I mean, maybe I hit my head and have a concussion, and you're just the product of a medically induced coma, yet those...things, those Orcs back there are real. You're real. In my world, you exist only in children's fairy tales, and you're supposed to be these cute little things that live in trees and bake cookies." Jordan was aware she was babbling, but she couldn't help herself.  
  
"I do not know what you speak of, but I assure you I am as real as you are. I have no answers, but be assured -- I will help you find your way back, if that is what you wish." Jordan turned to look at him, doubt and hope mingling in her troubled eyes. Finally, a tentative smile reached her lips and died before it could be fully revealed.  
  
"Legolas...what if more Orcs are still out there?" the Immortal asked with a shudder.  
  
The Elf heard the uncertainty and fear in Jordan's voice; hesitating for a brief moment, Legolas put an arm around the and drew her to him in a tight embrace. Jordan resisted for a moment before giving in, her arms going around him, her body trembling.  
  
"Be at ease, Jordan. I will not let you come to harm. We are safe." Murmuring comforting words in Elvish, he continued to hold her, stroking her hair until she stilled.  
  
** This is really too much,** the Immortal thought dismally, fighting the urge to give into more tears.  
  
Perhaps it was the totality of the day, coupled with her reluctant night in the open and heaped with a double dose of 'weird'. Whatever the reason, Jordan decided what would help her feel better right now would be another sob session. Knowing mortal women were prone to emotional displays, Legolas patiently waited for Jordan's tears to cease; he began to softly sing an Elvish lullaby, it's cadence weaved an aura of comfort around the woman. The Elf smiled to himself and continued singing when Jordan hiccupped and sighed. Feeling her body slowly relax once again in his arms, the Elf was about to lay Jordan down on her pallet when he changed his mind; Legolas drew his cloak over them and held the woman close.  
  
# the Mirkwood Prince was not tired, nor did he wish to fall into reverie. Instead, as Jordan slept, Legolas studied her face; his blue gaze followed the fine shape of the Immortal's eyebrows. He longed to see her eyes, but lids weighed down by thick lashes hid them. The cool night air brought out the roses in Jordan's cheeks, and the moon gave her smooth skin a pearly luster. Taking a lock of her dark hair, the Elf enjoyed its silky feel as he slowly rubbed it between his fingers, then against his cheek. It was so black that in the sunlight, it shone blue. Legolas' keen eyes traveled down Jordan's face, her lips were slightly parted, as if in invitation, and her body was warm and pliable in his arms. Feeling the tightening in his groin, Legolas sighed and waited for the dawn. It was going to be a long night.  
  
* * *  
  
The world was beginning to stir as the day broke. Jordan's warm blanket was shifting. Making a soft noise of protest, she snuggled closer. In her dream, her lover's face was inches from hers; his lips curved at the corners, making it seem as if he were always smiling. She touched his face, and found his skin to be as she always imagined -- smooth and warm.  
  
** My Adonis. ** Jordan thought dreamily. Reaching up, she touched her lips to his.  
  
The dawn finally arrived. It was time to break camp and set out for Imladris; trying to wake Jordan, Legolas shifted his position in the hopes of rousing her from slumber. Instead, the woman snuggled closer to him. Had the circumstances been different, Legolas would have explored the opportunity presenting itself. Knowing Jordan still lingered in the realm of dreams, the Elf relented, and allowed her a few more moments' rest, until, eyes unfocused and cloudy with sleep, Jordan looked at him and touched his face. And then she kissed him.  
  
It was not much of a kiss, really, but the sensation of their lips touching caught him off guard. It was electric. For a split second, Legolas hesitated, not wanting to take advantage of the situation, and then with a groan, he deepened the kiss and pulled Jordan closer to him; her arms encircled the Elf's neck as she enthusiastically responded to him. His tongue traced her lips, lightly stroking, before gaining entrance and dancing with hers in a soft welcome that intensified with each stroke. The silky-smooth feel of her soft lips and tongue made him want to explore the rest of her, to see if she felt just as good.  
  
** I can actually feel his body . . . his hair . . . so soft, so . . .! **  
  
It was then that Jordan came fully awake. Her eyes flew wide open as she broke off the kiss and removed her arms from around his neck; for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Jordan was breathing hard, trying to get her raging body under control. As for the Elf, Legolas' eyes held the unmistakable light of interest as he waited to see what the woman would do. Blushing furiously, the Immortal realized she was practically draped across the gorgeous creature. Quickly, the woman scrambled off the Elf's lap and jumped to her feet. Not quite meeting his eyes, Jordan knew she had to get away, to give herself a moment to collect herself. What on earth had she done?  
  
"I-I'm sorry..." Jordan managed to stammer as she turned away. She missed the wide grin on the Elf's face.  
  
The woman had to force herself to walk sedately when she really wanted to run as she headed towards the stream. Kneeling by the waters edge, the Immortal touched her lips. They felt swollen from Legolas' brief but thorough kiss. She'd been kissed before, but not quite like that. Looking at her reflection in the clear water, Jordan couldn't help but smile before it faded. The Immortal couldn't deny the attraction she felt for Legolas – it was the suddenness and intensity of it that scared her; it was so out of character for her to kiss a man she hardly knew, let alone an Elf.  
  
** Well, I hope that means he's not gay.** Jordan thought. Sighing, she splashed her face and neck with water, shivering from the cold.  
  
** I'd better get back. We'll be leaving soon.** Composing herself, Jordan walked back to camp; Gimli was already mounted on his gelding.  
  
"Did you sleep well, Lass? You'll need all your strength if you're to stay on one of these blasted beasts for the duration of the journey." The Dwarf said, casting a baleful glance at his mount. Jordan smiled, but didn't answer Gimli's question.  
  
All trace of their camp was gone. Standing by Arod, Legolas was stroking the horse's neck, talking to it in what Jordan presumed to be Elvish; looking up at her approach, the Elf met her gaze with a level one of his own, his face impassive. Searching his blue eyes, Jordan could see no reproach in them as he handed her a small wafer.  
  
"Good morn, Jordan. This is Lembas--Elvish way bread." Legolas said.  
  
"Thank you." She replied.  
  
Not knowing what else to say, Jordan nibbled her bread; it was light, airy and surprisingly filling. Giving the Elf a tentative smile, again Legolas easily lifted Jordan onto Arod, took his place behind her, and they were on their way. The trio had ridden for a better part of the morning, when the Immortal couldn't stand it any longer.  
  
"Legolas, about this morning...I hope I didn't offend you, or act inappropriately." Jordan waited in tense silence for his reply.  
  
"There is nothing to forgive. I regret that it ended." Legolas replied.  
  
His warm breath brushing against her ear caused goose bumps to form on Jordan's arms, despite her clothing. The woman was glad Legolas couldn't see her blush and how much his words pleased her. What didn't please her was his next words.  
  
"Your wounds are completely healed. There is no mark or hurt on you." Legolas' astute observation made Jordan slightly uncomfortable.  
  
** He may be blonde, but he certainly isn't dumb or blind ** she thought.  
  
"Umm, I heal quickly. It's a family trait." Jordan said.  
  
Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Legolas fell silent.  
  
:: The blow the Orc gave her was delivered with great force, yet she is without a scratch :: he thought, intrigued.  
  
The travelers didn't stop for lunch, instead, they ate more of the Lembas. Legolas could tell Jordan was an inexperienced rider from the way she bounced up and down.  
  
:: She is skilled with a blade, but not with horses.:: He mused to himself.  
  
Unfortunately, they must ride hard to reach Rivendell before midday. Stopping only to water the horses, Legolas dismounted lightly and reached up to help Jordan down. Jordan grabbed Legolas' arms for support; she would've fallen if his hands weren't still around her waist, as her legs buckled beneath her. Mortified, Jordan tried forced her legs straight, despite her thighs' protest; the Immortal's buttocks felt as if they had been spanked continuously through the morning.  
  
"I--I'll be okay—I just need to stretch." She mumbled.  
  
Looking at the ground, she missed the look of concern on Legolas' face. Gritting her teeth, the Immortal made her way to the Dwarf who was watering his mount at the stream, she couldn't help but grimace.  
  
"Gimli, how do you stand it?" she asked.  
  
"Lass, those pointy ears take to horses like fish to water. We Dwarves are not suited for the beasts, but never let it be said we cannot adapt. It'll get easier as we go on. Perhaps you should altar your seat." Though his voice was gruff, Jordan could hear the concern. Squinting up at her, Gimli looked at her shurikens flashing in the light.  
  
"Those weapons of yours are unlike any I've seen. Mayhaps in  
Rivendell you can show them to me." The Dwarf proposed.  
  
"I'd be honored. I would also like to examine your axes. The craftsmanship is extraordinary." Jordan smiled at the way Gimli stood a little taller, with his chest puffed out.  
  
When the horses finished drinking, and the water skins were refilled, the trio prepared to ride; this time Jordan sat sideways; once again she gritted her teeth as they took off. Jordan scrutinized the landscape, marveling at its unsullied beauty. When the woman grew bored, she surreptitiously studied the Elf. Staring at his clothing, Jordan wondered why the designs on his outer tunic looked vaguely familiar. Unable to place her finger on it, she gave up; instead, the Immortal examined Legolas' quiver holster. Jordan was admiring the tooling and etchings when her gaze traveled upwards to the Elf's profile. Even with the opportunity to study him at super close range, Jordan discovered with a small amount of envy that his fair skin was unblemished, and in the sunlight, had a luminescent quality to it; looking at his ears, the Immortal was especially fascinated with the tips, and her fingers itched to touch it.  
  
** I wonder if Mr. Spock is descended from intergalactic Elves...?** Jordan thought.  
  
"You gaze at me most intently" Legolas commented.  
  
"Can you wiggle your ears?" Jordan wished she could take the words back the moment she uttered them.  
  
"No, can you?" Legolas replied, with a smile.  
  
** Touché. ** the Immortal thought.  
  
"I'm sorry, that was rude of me. It's just that I've never met an Elf before. Elves, Dwarves and Orcs aren't exactly common in Washington." Jordan replied.  
  
"When Lord Elrond determines his course of action concerning the Orcs, I pledge to you my assistance in finding your way home, if that is what you wish." The sincerity in his face touched her, leaving no doubt in her mind that he would keep his word.  
  
"Thank you, Legolas." She said softly, turning her attention back to the passing scenery.  
  
"Tell me more of Washington." Glad to talk about something safe and familiar, Jordan told him about her apartment, and her favorite local haunts in Washington, her discomfort briefly forgotten as the horses' swift hooves bore them towards their destination.  
  
"Look, we are here." Legolas announced.  
  
The change in the scenery was astonishing. Where there was a lush, primeval forest, in Trollshaw, Rivendell was majestic. It was a sea of autumn colors: reds, golds, greens, oranges, yellows, everywhere there was color—and lots of it, as well as Immortals. Almost immediately, Jordan felt multiple Buzzes.  
  
"Legolas, we're not alone. There's someone out there." Jordan murmured as she sat up straighter, despite her sore bottom's protest. Surprised, Legolas looked at her quizzically before replying.  
  
"Rivendell is well guarded. No doubt Lord Elrond is already aware of our arrival. Tis not much farther." The Elf assured her as they began their ascent. 


	5. In The Company of Elves

Disclaimer: This is my very first fan fiction. I'm a big fan of the movie(s) and haven't had a chance to read the books.yet. Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue.  
  
In the Company of Elves  
  
As the little company rode higher and higher into the mountains, the air became cooler, crisper and thinner. The steep grade was terrifying--in some areas the mountainside fell completely away. When she braved a look over the side of the narrow path, Jordan could no longer see the forest floor far below. She kept her eyes front and center since then, having no choice but to trust in the skill of the Elf and his mount.  
  
At first, the Immortal had difficulty adjusting to the altitude. * * It's Mt. Fuji all over again. * * Jordan thought to herself. Slow, deep breaths made her ascent more bearable as they passed misty, roaring waterfalls, and occasionally, other Elves who appeared and disappeared into the foliage as silently as shadows.  
  
Noticing her discomfort, Legolas murmured softly in her ear, "It will ease momentarily. Not much longer, Jordan, we are almost there." Nodding, she concentrated on her breathing.  
  
Gimli and Legolas would greet by name those they knew, and would be greeted in kind. Finding it easier to breathe with each passing moment, Jordan was in awe of the place, her head in constant motion as she took in her surroundings. Legolas was amused, a smile on his face, as she would occasionally strain to peer over his shoulder at something that caught her attention.  
  
"Are you pleased with Rivendell?" He asked her teasingly.  
  
"It's beyond anything I've ever seen." she said reverently. Her green eyes were shining, their color intensified by the lush foliage; Legolas felt a stirring in his soul.  
  
"Our journey is almost over." The Elf said. Turning to face forward again, Jordan's eyes widened in wonder as she glimpsed the beautiful buildings and statues perched on the mountainside.  
  
They rode into a vast, open courtyard. Gimli had already dismounted, the reins of his horse taken by an Elf, presumably a stable hand of some sort. The beauty of Rivendell left her speechless; everywhere, graceful arches, lush groves, silhouettes and buildings were perfectly intertwined with nature itself. It was difficult to tell when a building began, and where nature took over.  
  
Jordan was still marveling at the architecture, when the Buzz, at first low in intensity, became a constant, insistent crescendo that increased as more Elves arrived and gathered to greet the travelers and tend to the animals. Legolas lightly dismounted; turning to help Jordan down, he grew concerned as he saw the alarming pallor of her skin, and her general look of distress.  
  
"Jordan, what is the matter? Are you ill?" Perplexed, one minute she was fine, and the next she looked nauseated and decidedly unwell.  
  
"Legolas, I don't feel so good." Swallowing hard against the bile threatening to come up, Jordan closed her eyes.  
  
The overwhelming Buzz -- in combination with the strain of their hard ride -- turned Jordan's already sore legs to jelly. Slumping against Legolas as he lifted her down, the Immortal concentrated on not vomiting on the Elf's boots; whimpering softly, she offered no protest as Legolas bent and effortlessly swept her up in his arms. Everywhere, the musical voices around her became garbled and distant as the Buzz roared in her ears.  
  
* * * *  
  
Legolas quickly carried Jordan to the quarters indicated by a servant; entrusting her to the capable hands of Læurenthail, the head Healer, the son of Tharanduil was confident Jordan would receive the best care possible. Unable to help himself, the Elf caressed her cheek. The gesture wasn't lost to Læurenthail's sharp eyes, though her face remained expressionless. Nodding to the Healer, Legolas departed, seeking Lord Elrond.  
  
Sitting at an impromptu council, Elders of various ranking were in attendance, listening as Legolas and Gimli told of the strange flash of light that led them to the woman, Jordan Waters, and how she alone battled Orcs until they arrived. An occasional frown creased Lord Elrond's forehead. Their tale corroborated reports of increased sightings of renegade bands of Orcs, with disturbing frequency.  
  
The first priority would be to rid the borders of Rivendell and the surrounding outlying areas of the Orc scourge. Then he would consider Jordan Waters. At present, the woman was unable to speak for herself. Lord Elrond decided to pay his unexpected guest a visit, knowing his Elven guards would deal with any Orcs or other fell creatures that dared to enter his realm. The coming festivities would continue without interruption, with the borders of Rivendell heavily fortified.  
  
"She stirs." A soft, female voice said quietly. The Buzz was a constant drone as Jordan's eyes flew open in alarm, her hands instinctively searching for her Katana. Struggling to sit up, gentle hands firmly held her down.  
  
"You are still weak. Rest." Looking at the owner, she saw it was a she-Elf. Beautiful, aristocratic features graced her face. Her pointed ears peeked out from behind gorgeous, flowing chestnut brown hair.  
  
"I am Læurenthail, and you are in the House of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, Jordan Waters." She smiled at Jordan's look of astonishment.  
  
"Welcome to Imladris, or in Common, Rivendell, Lady Waters. I am Elrond; Lærenthail, our Head Healer, has been tending you."  
  
Jordan gazed at the new speaker, a tall Elf with regal bearing addressed Jordan. His rich robes, and the elaborate circlet upon his head indicated his rank as that of royalty.  
  
"My Lord, thank you for your hospitality. I'm afraid your first impression of me is not a favorable one." Jordan's cheeks colored a becoming shade of rose, indicating her chagrin at meeting the Lord of this realm in such a way. Elrond's sharp features and even sharper gaze took her appearance in. Sensing no shadow in her person, only acute embarrassment, as well as wonder, he decided to leave her in her quarters until the evening's festivities.  
  
"We will speak more later. There is a feast this even; I pray you will be well enough to attend. In the meantime, Lady Waters, rest well."  
  
"Thank you, my Lord." Jordan relaxed against the pillows as Læurenthail walked Lord Elrond out; their voices low in conversation.  
  
"Do you think she well enough to attend this even, Læurenthail?" He asked the Healer.  
  
"Yes, my Lord. Exhaustion is all I see that is plaguing her. Lord Legolas says she is not a skilled rider. No doubt her body is most sore from their travels." Lord Elrond nodded, satisfied with the Healer's assessment of their guest.  
  
While the woman was unconscious, he had taken the opportunity to examine her unusual clothing and weaponry. Spying the leaf of Lórien around her neck, Elrond Half-Elven was intensely curious to know how a strange mortal woman would be in possession of it. It only served to raise more questions. When he touched it, images of landscapes and buildings that were alien filled his mind.  
  
Most prominent was the face of a handsome, dark-haired Man that flitted thru the Elven ruler's mind; fragmented images and impressions gave him the sense the Man was a . . . Swordmaster of some manner. As for the woman, no threat or shadow could he sense from her, yet he determined her presence in Imladris was of great importance. The answers would reveal themselves, all in good time, and time is certainly something the Elves had. If, for some reason, answers were not revealed, then surely Mithrandir would be able to lend clarity to the situation.  
  
Jordan lay back against the pillows of the bed, watching Læurenthail move about silently and efficiently. Idly, she toyed with her necklace. Seeing that Jordan remained awake and alert, Læurenthail said, "You heal quickly, Lady Waters. Your clothes have been sent for cleaning. They will be returned to you shortly. In the meantime, I hope you find these acceptable for use." Indicating a large armoire decorated with intricate carvings, she continued, "You will find items needed for your stay at Rivendell. If there is any thing else you require, please let Ceallach know."  
  
"Please call me Jordan, Læurenthail. I can't thank you enough for your care and the clothes. I only hope there is some way for me to repay you and Lord Elrond for your thoughtfulness and hospitality."  
  
"I shall leave you now. Ceallach will show you to the washroom; a servant will escort you to the feast. No doubt Lord Legolas and Master Gimli wish to know how you fare." With a reassuring smile, the she-Elf left, closing the door silently behind her.  
  
Jordan waited for a beat of three before sitting up in bed, the bed sheet fell away. The Immortal noticed her bra and panties were missing, and wondered wryly what the Elves must have thought of her clothes; Jordan looked down at the gown she was wearing. Brilliant white in color, the sheer, gauzy material did little to hide her nudity but felt good next to her skin; the supple scoop neck was heavily embroidered in gold and green thread; unfortunately, it was made for a tall person, for on her the neckline reached from shoulder to shoulder; when she gathered it closer, the neckline only dipped lower, into a deep "U", all the way to her belly button, presenting a dilemma of sorts. On the other hand, if Jordan wasn't careful, it could slip off her shoulders, and down to the ground. The sleeves were long and bell shaped, but reached well past her hands. Apparently Elven maidens weren't petite. It was one of the most beautiful sleeping gowns she'd ever seen. A sudden feeling of homesickness over came her.  
  
** If I were home, I'd be shopping and getting a pedicure. Then I'd go home, happily exhausted while I eat popcorn and watch a DVD, ** she thought. Sighing, Duncan's face came to her mind; she wondered what he was doing.  
  
** Much as I'd love to stay, I've got to find a way back home. **  
  
Feeling stronger and back to normal, Jordan couldn't help but notice the Buzz remained a steady, low-level hum.  
  
** definitely more tolerable. Elves must be immortal. I wonder if there are any more of Us here. Or am I the only one? If Duncan could only see me now! ** She thought. Looking around the room, the carvings and appointments were all beautiful, natural, and Elvish in design.  
  
** Home and Garden TV has nothing on them,** Jordan thought.  
  
Looking up at the ceiling, suspended was the sheer netting that was currently pulled aside; if drawn, it would act as both a bug shield, and a romantic curtain. The white bed sheets were made of the softest cotton- like material, the neutral and earth colors of the room rich and vibrant; the room, gown and setting made her feel feminine and dainty. As the fading rays of the sun came thru the open windows, a soft, refreshing breeze circulated through the room, bringing with it the rich scents of the world outside and the sounds of nature.  
  
Jordan had to crawl across the large bed before she was finally able to slip off. Taking a step, she tripped over the long hem of the nightgown, the Immortal caught herself on a beautifully carved stand beside the bed, almost knocking it over in the process. Steadying it, she sighed in relief.  
  
"You break it, you buy it." She warned herself as she looked around the room.  
  
To her delight, the Immortal noticed her weapons were complete and in their holsters, draped across a chair at the side of the armoire.  
  
** How thoughtful. And trusting. Obviously they don't consider me a threat. ** she mused to herself.  
  
Going to the armoire, Jordan opened the doors to see it held various articles of clothing. Finding a robe, Jordan slipped it on; delighted to see its length was perfect. Belting it closed, the Immortal crossed the room and went to the door. Jordan stepped outside. In the hallway, she met the beautiful she-Elf who introduced herself as Ceallach; the Elven maiden quietly led the woman to a room that was straight out of a fantasy. A sunken pool dominated the center of the room; large enough to swim in, fresh water was replenished as it poured in from a graceful statue of a she- Elf tipping an urn; green plants were everywhere, the scent of flowers permeating the balmy air.  
  
"This pool is fed by a waterfall which falls away to the river below. Lady Waters, you will find what you need to complete your cleansing on the stand. I shall be outside. You may leave your shift by the pool if you wish."  
  
Looking around the room, Jordan turned back to thank her, only to discover she was alone.  
  
"Silent as shadows." She murmured to herself.  
  
Shrugging, Jordan counted to three before squealing in delight. The Immortal ran to the water; carefully folding her robe and gown, she placed them on the ledge where they wouldn't get wet. Dipping her toes in the water, Jordan found it was wonderfully warm. Easing herself in until fully submersed, when Jordan did finally come up for air, the Immortal hugged herself with a smile. Wading to the stand by the pool, she sniffed the scented bars and admired the delicate combs, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship. Deciding she liked the one that smelled like herbs and flowers, she stood in the shallow area, working the soap into a rich, luxurious lather, covering her hair and body with the fragrant foam.  
  
Looking like she was covered in marshmallow cream, Jordan's green eyes were the only visible part of her body. Diving into the water, the bubbly foam floated on the surface, where it swirled before disappearing. Coming up for air, she swam to the edge of the pool and rested her head on her hands.  
  
** I wish I could take this home** Jordan thought wistfully.  
  
Not wanting to linger too long, she finished her bath. Jordan sat on the ledge, her legs still dangling in the warm water as she selected a comb made of mother-of-pearl. Pulling it thru her wet locks, the Immortal carefully wrung the excess water from her long hair. She then placed the used comb beside the bowl, separating it from the other combs. Jordan dried off with a large cloth before slipping back into her robe. Gathering up her shift, the Immortal blew a kiss good bye to the room and stepped into the hallway where Ceallach was waiting for her. 


	6. Feast and Fancy

Disclaimer: Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue.  
  
Feast and Fancy  
  
Back in her quarters, Jordan discovered a fire had been started in the hearth. Its bright flames cheered the Immortal as she took a moment to soak in the warmth. After a moment, the woman walked to the balcony and looked out at the panoramic view of Rivendell at night. She could hear the many waterfalls, as well as the silhouettes of trees and the surrounding foliage; on her balcony, off to the side was a beautifully carved bench, and beyond it, steps leading down to a courtyard and a grove of trees below. Though there was no electricity, there were lights all around. Soft and inviting, they illuminated the buildings in it's warm glow. Listening, Jordan could hear ethereal voices lifted in song. Closing her eyes, Jordan listened to the haunting music.  
  
"I'm in an Enya video" she whispered giddily to herself.  
  
Not knowing if she was late for the festivities, Jordan turned to go back inside; she paused, for all along the doorway, the external carvings glowed faintly in the weak moonlight. Cautiously reaching out, Jordan touched it – it was cool beneath her fingers. Experimentally, the Immortal scraped the carvings with her fingernails. It didn't come away.  
  
"Hmmmm...what is this?" she wondered aloud.  
  
Unfortunately, Jordan was in a hurry and didn't have time to give it more than a curious thought as she hurried back inside and peered into the armoire. Selecting a gown of the deepest emerald, she slipped it over her head and was amazed to find that it fit her perfectly. Going thru the drawers, Jordan was unsuccessful. She couldn't find. . .  
  
"Panties. Where are the panties?" she wondered, pawing thru the drawers. Starting over, Jordan searched the armoire from top to bottom. Her thorough search was fruitless. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.  
  
"I guess they don't exist here." The Immortal said to herself; it appeared she would have to do without.  
  
Biting her bottom lip, Jordan smiled and blushed slightly. The Immortal had to admit it felt . . . liberating, titillating and a bit naughty to go about au natural.  
  
"At least I won't have to worry about panty lines." She murmured with a grin.  
  
At the bottom of the armoire, the Immortal found a pair of matching slippers. Sliding her feet into them, she walked around the room. They were heaven. Made of velvet, the footwear appeared delicate, but were surprisingly sturdy. The soles were cork and felt wonderful on her feet, unlike anything she'd ever worn.  
  
"It's Elvish magic." Jordan said aloud. As the woman closed the doors to the wardrobe, she spied a hairbrush in the armoire. Turning it over in her hand, Jordan examined it closely.  
  
"No way. . . " she murmured to herself, with a grin on her face. The handle and back was encrusted with...rubies and emeralds!  
  
"I'd better not drop this." The Immortal said.  
  
With a laugh, Jordan stood by the fireplace and brushed her hair dry till it shone. Giving her reflection a critical glance in the mirror, Jordan twirled slowly, pleased to see the gown flattered her figure; the sumptuous material clung to her curves and bosom, and the deep verdant hue intensified the color of her eyes. Since she was going for the monochromatic look, Jordan decided it was fitting that the Leaf was the only ornament she wore -- never mind the fact it was the only piece of jewelry on her person. Coming closer to the mirror, the woman inspected her face; she wasn't surprised to see her injuries had completely healed.  
  
"Hopefully Legolas won't notice." She murmured to herself.  
  
Jordan decided she was safe enough in Rivendell to go without her weapons, sincerely doubting the Elves would spend the night in wild revelry and licentious debauchery. Squaring her shoulders, the Immortal couldn't help but hesitate as dread and eagerness warred within her.  
  
"I can't hide here forever. Here goes nothing." Jordan said to herself. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door pull and stepped outside.  
  
#  
  
Thanking Ceallach for her assistance, Jordan lingered in the vestibule. In the great hall, the feast was in full swing. Everywhere Jordan looked were tall, beautiful Elves attired in gorgeous robes and gowns. In the sea of color, Jordan's gaze swept the room; she almost overlooked the small group of Men, for their dark clothes almost completely camouflaged from sight. Jordan was under the impression she was the only human in Rivendell. Apparently she was wrong. as she watched, some of the Men leaned against the doorway, taking in the sight of the Elves as they passed, while other Men filled their plates with food and carried them outside.  
  
Curious, the Immortal wondered who they were as she observed them; some were speaking with Elves, others were talking amongst themselves. Their long, dark hair hung at or past their shoulders. Facial hair in varying stages of growth identified them as non-Elven. Their plain, somber clothing was a direct contrast to the rich, flowing fabrics the Elves favored. The Men were tall, though not quite as tall as the Elves. One in particular caught her eye; from across the room, his direct gaze held Jordan's when her eyes settled on him. They stared at each other for several moments before the Immortal was distracted when several bright shades of orange and yellow caught her attention. When Jordan looked back to where the Men were, they were gone. The Immortal didn't give them a second thought as she continued to survey the room.  
  
The music in the background was as beautiful and unearthly as the beings she was surrounded with. Exquisite garlands and flowers of all colors and species festooned the walls and tables, their delicate fragrances perfumed the air. Feeling like the analogous country cousin amidst such unparalleled beauty, Jordan edged her way to a potted plant and stood close to its wide, dark leaves, hoping to blend in with the foliage in an attempt to be inconspicuous as she gazed around the room. So enthralled with her surroundings, the woman forgot her hunger, instead she feasted her eyes on the sights surrounding her.  
  
Food-laden tables were placed throughout the room. Seated close to a table spread with assorted meats, Jordan watched Gimli busy at work; his plate was piled high with food, and he ate with relish. The Immortal searched the room, telling herself it was only because she was hoping to see another familiar face. After all, there was nothing quite like attending a party where you didn't know a single soul. It wasn't difficult to find his fair head.  
  
"Guess there's no such thing as an ugly Elf." She whispered to herself.  
  
Though the Elves possessed beauty beyond compare, to Jordan's eyes, the golden Elf was more handsome than any other Elf in the room. There was . . . something about him that drew the Immortal to him like a magnet and made her heart flip-flop in her chest.  
  
** Impossible. You've only just met. ** she told herself.  
  
Despite herself, Jordan thought about their kiss in the forest, and the memory of it brought a smile to her face. Giving herself a mental shake, the Immortal wondered how Legolas' presence alone had the power to make her speechless, wanting nothing more than to stare at him. He also made her feel like an awkward teenager again – a feeling she'd not experienced in quite some time. From her sheltered hiding place, the Immortal observed the Golden Elf.  
  
Legolas had changed as well. Dressed in resplendent clothes, the son of Thranduil seemed to glow with an inner light. Legolas was talking with two male Elves who were mirror images of one another; looking back and forth between them, Jordan thought they closely resembled Lord Elrond.  
  
** Maybe I should say hello. ** Jordan thought, about to step out from behind the plant.  
  
Jordan halted abruptly, nervous. Suddenly feeling shy, the Immortal smoothed her gown with palms that were slightly damp; she hoped Legolas would notice she looked different from when they'd first met; Jordan hesitated, unsure why the Elf's good opinion of her mattered. Staring at him, Jordan was still pondering the thought, when Legolas looked straight at her. The woman stood still; hoping he didn't see her, she willed herself to be one with the potted plant. Holding her breath, the Immortal was relieved when one of the Elves asked him a question, causing Legolas to look at him. Jordan was so engrossed in watching the Wood Elf that she started at the soft voice by her elbow.  
  
"Jordan, why are you hiding?"  
  
Læurenthail was dressed in a long peach colored gown, a smile graced her lovely face when she spied Lord Elrond's unusual guest hiding behind a plant. Sensing her awkwardness, the she-Elf went to Jordan in an effort to make her feel welcome. The look of surprise and relief on the woman's face was obvious to the Elven maiden. Appraising her with an objective eye, Læurenthail noted Jordan barely resembled the she-male she was upon her arrived at Rivendell.  
  
** She is fair for a Daughter of Man. ** the Healer decided.  
  
Although Læurenthail wasn't inclined to seek the company of mortals, she understood why Lord Legolas befriended them. They were like children; their emotions were unguarded, and given their limited time on middle- earth, lived their lives with a passion worthy of admiration. The Healer wondered about Jordan's age, for she seemed more like a youth than a woman. Perhaps she had not attained her full stature, for the top of her head only reached to most Elves' chins.  
  
"Læurenthail—it's so good to see a familiar face!" Jordan said, glad to see the Healer.  
  
"Thank you for the gown, I've never worn anything like it—and best of all, it fits!" she said, smoothing the dress once more.  
  
"Your own garb was used as a guide to alter the gown and the other garments. Come, this is the feast of Lord Elrond, and feast we must. The revelry will begin soon thereafter." With her hand beneath the woman's elbow, the Healer gently pulled Jordan away from her hiding place and led her towards the tables.  
  
** When in Rome...or is it Rivendell? ** Jordan smiled at the private joke as she allowed herself to be pulled along.  
  
Nodding to the Elves the she-Elf introduced her to, Jordan looked back to where she last saw Legolas; the Immortal was vaguely disappointed to see he was gone. With a small sigh, the Immortal obediently followed Læurenthail, trying to remember the (to her ears) unusual names as the Healer pointed out guests of import, and introduced her to others of particular interest as they drifted towards the tables. When they did finally reach the food, the Immortal sighed in relief as she inspected the spread; Jordan recognized some, but most she didn't. Regardless, the presentation surpassed any catered affair Jordan had ever attended, and the variety was astounding. The appetizing aromas wafted through the air. The Immortal's stomach growled in response, reminding Jordan of her inattention to its needs.  
  
Filling a plate, Jordan quietly nibbled her food; talking with Elves Læurenthail introduced her to, the Immortal answered their curious questions, tailoring her answers without giving away too much, being deliberately vague. After eating her fill, a passing servant collected the Immortal's plate. Wanting fresh air and a chance to walk off some of her meal, Jordan excused herself from the pleasant company and made her way to the balcony.  
  
Going to a dark corner, the Immortal stood at the railing; the chatter and music of the feast in the background faded to a muted hush as she listened to the night sounds. Looking up, Jordan imagined a giant child taking a handful of stars and scattering them across the nighttime sky. Without artificial lighting, it was amazing to see how brightly they shone, twinkling like diamonds against a bed of black velvet. Taking a deep breath of the cool night air, the scents of the moisture from the waterfalls, the surrounding forest and the feast filled her nostrils. A star blazed across the sky, its tail left a glittering path in its wake.  
  
With her eyes closed, Jordan's lips moved silently as she made a wish. The Immortal thought of home and Duncan; he seemed so far away. But . . . after a full stomach, a luxurious bath, and in the safety of Rivendell—surrounded by fabled creatures of legend, the woman's perspective changed. Shivering, though not from the cold, Jordan wrapped her arms around herself. Jordan was torn between wanting to fully experience this incredible adventure and wanting it to end, because it must. Still lost in thought, the Immortal was startled as something warm enveloped her. Whirling around, Jordan discovered Legolas had draped his cloak over her, and he now stood before her with a small smile on his handsome face; the Elf was standing so close that Jordan had nowhere to go, trapped between him and the railing at her back. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.  
  
** He's worth staying** Jordan thought.  
  
Blinking, the Immortal mentally shook herself; it was a dangerous line  
of thought that was best left unexplored. Jordan studied the Elf, unable to help herself. In the moonlight, Legolas' pale hair gleamed, his features luminescent. Mesmerized, she stood still. A voice in the back of her mind whispered she should thank the Elf for his thoughtfulness, but Jordan found her tongue was suddenly stuck to the roof of her mouth. Instead, she returned his smile with one of her own.  
  
Needless to say, the Immortal didn't expect his next move, for Legolas' hands cupped her face, gently turning it as he looked for her injuries. Not only was Jordan surprised, she was unprepared for the tingling sensation that caused a delicious shiver to go down her spine. It was like a miniature Quickening. Unconsciously Jordan swayed towards the Elf, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the feel of his hands against her face. Satisfied with his inspection, Legolas gently brushed his knuckles against Jordan's cheek before his hands slowly traveled down the smooth column of her neck. Normally very protective of the vulnerable part of her anatomy, Jordan found she didn't mind Legolas' hands there – as long as he didn't squeeze or try to snap it. The Elf's fingers touched the pendant suspended on its silver chain.  
  
"That is the leaf of Lórien. How did you come to possess it?" Legolas' gaze was puzzled as he looked at her.  
  
"It was a gift from an acquaintance. He gave it to me shortly before I . . . arrived here."  
  
** No--of course! This must be the key to everything! ** Jordan's thoughts were spinning in her head. The way back home could possibly be suspended around her neck!  
  
"Legolas, maybe this is the answer to my way home, maybe--" Her eager words were cut off as the Elf placed a finger gently against her lips, effectively silencing her.  
  
"If you hold the key, then there is time enough to find your way home. Tonight let us enjoy the evening." He murmured.  
  
For his part, Legolas was unsure why he did not notice the Leaf before, and even more confused why he stilled her words. All the Mirkwood Prince knew was he did not want to hear Jordan speak of leaving, not so soon. The Elf surprised himself yet again when he took Jordan's hands in his own and planted a kiss against the backs.  
  
Jordan watched when the golden Elf kissed her hands in a courtly gesture; maybe it was the moon, or the stars, or the very romantic mood itself, but the Immortal swore the warmth of Legolas' lips remained on her skin where his lips touched it. And she couldn't help but feel secretly thrilled that the very handsome Elf hadn't released her hands as his blue gaze swept over her.  
  
"Elven garb suits you, Jordan Waters. I am glad to see you well enough to attend the festivities. I was hoping you would come." Legolas said.  
  
Jordan took the opportunity to study the Elf as well. He was wearing a silvery blue tunic with clasps down the front, and his forearms were bare of the vambraces he had previously worn; under the tunic were brown leggings tucked into his boots, which were cleaned and polished. The Elf definitely cut a fine figure.  
  
"I'm feeling much better, thank you. And are you enjoying yourself, Legolas? Have you eaten yet? Where is Gimli?"  
  
Jordan knew she was babbling, but was unable to help herself. Legolas was oblivious to the havoc he wrecked upon her composure. He made the Immortal both nervous and excited, and his attentive flirtation, although quite enjoyable, didn't help matters, either. Jordan couldn't quite understand why he affected her so. It was most disconcerting.  
  
"I have eaten, and Gimli is no doubt enjoying the mead and ale Rivendell has to offer." Legolas answered. He turned his head slightly and listened.  
  
"The singing and revelry has begun. Do you wish to join?" The Elf asked. He raised a dark blonde brow when Jordan declined.  
  
"I think I'll stay out here a little longer. I'm enjoying the beauty of the place, and I want to think for a while."  
  
"Do you wish to be alone, or may I join you?"  
  
"Please stay." She invited.  
  
* * Forever. * * Jordan silently added before squelching the unbidden thought.  
  
Legolas led the woman to an ornately carved stone bench, where they sat side by side. The Immortal noticed he still held her hand within his. Jordan marveled at how something so simple made her heart soar. Legolas was pleasant company; before long, they talked of the wonders and beauty of Rivendell, which led to a comparison of Legolas' home in Mirkwood. Jordan loved hearing the Elf's voice, and a small part of her wished the evening would last forever. But the other part knew she shouldn't monopolize the Prince of Mirkwood, either. Though the conversation was enjoyable, and the present company more so, Jordan looked at the golden Elf with regret in her eyes.  
  
"We'd better return. I wouldn't want them to think Orcs kidnapped you," she teased, though she made no move to rise.  
  
Legolas stood, the movement smooth and fluid; he gently tugged Jordan's hand. As the Immortal stood, he placed one hand on the small of her back, and drew her close. Jordan looked up at him, surprised. Her eyes widened when Legolas combed his fingers thru her hair; Jordan soon felt goose bumps start to rise up and down her arms.  
  
Bending his head, Legolas softly said in her ear, "Mayhaps they would think you had spirited me away. I would not resist." Flustered, Jordan blushed. Already her cheeks felt quite hot.  
  
"There you two are! The ale is tolerable here. Lord Elrond's brew masters need some instruction from the Dwarves. Jordan, how are you feeling? You look well enough. Come and feast, for tonight is a night of revelry!"  
  
The Dwarf's blustery voice broke the spell. With a smile, the Elf released the Immortal. Glad for the distraction, Jordan went to the Dwarf, whose nose and cheeks were a bright pink.  
  
"Gimli, I'm glad to see you. Isn't the feast wonderful? Legolas and I were about to listen to the singing."  
  
"Well, the pointy-ears spend too much time singing and telling tales, but I suppose they do have a gift for it. Let us discover for ourselves what the fuss is all about." Legolas gave Jordan an enigmatic look as he and Gimli escorted her to the festivities and remained by her side for the duration of the evening.  
  
Surrounded by beautiful beings with equally beautiful voices, the Immortal was captivated. When the dancing began, Jordan was entranced by the grace and beauty of the dancers, as well as the intricate steps. Jordan thought the dance reflected the traits of the beings themselves, for like them, the steps were graceful, complex and the partners were not held close, but were at a distance. Jordan was still reflecting on her thoughts when a lovely she-Elf approached. The Immortal laughed with delight when the maiden managed to get Gimli on his feet; two made an incongruous pair as they moved thru the steps. Surprisingly, the Dwarf was a graceful and adept partner. Jordan was so intently observing the dancers; she didn't notice Legolas watching her. The Elf was thoughtfully studying the unusual beauty beside him, enjoying the way her dark head bobbed in time to the music, her gaze darting from the dancers' feet, to their posture and back again.  
  
"Luithiach nin (You enchant me)." Legolas murmured, more to himself than aloud. Blinking, the Fair Elf shook himself and decided it would be better for them to join the merriment.  
  
"Would you like to dance?" He asked her, with a smile on his face.  
  
Jordan was so engrossed in watching the dancers, that she didn't hear the question. The Elf touched her arm and repeated his question. Embarrassed, Jordan apologized as she considered the Prince's question. She was about to accept his invitation, then she thought again.  
  
"Oh no, I couldn't. I don't know the steps." Jordan demurred, yet the eagerness and longing in her eyes contradicted her words.  
  
"Then I shall teach you. Allow me the honor of a dance with you, fair Jordan." The Immortal hesitated.  
  
"Please."  
  
Legolas held his hand out to her and smiled, for Jordan's cheeks were flushed with excitement. With her hand enveloped in his, the Elf led the Immortal to the dance floor. When they reached the dance floor, Jordan had a sudden change of heart, and would've returned to her seat, had Legolas not kept a firm grasp on her hand. After more cajoling, the Legolas led the woman through the elaborate steps.  
  
The Golden Elf effortlessly caught the Immortal and laughed with her when she stumbled yet again; much to Jordan's relief, Legolas was a patient instructor. Halfway through the dance, Jordan finally managed to not step on the Elf's boots quite so often -- although several times Legolas had to firmly yet gently steer her away from the other dancers when they almost collided. The Mirkwood Elf kept his amusement to himself, for he observed Jordan was concentrating so hard on the steps, that she was tense and stiff in his arms; her cheeks were colored most becomingly with the effort of not bumping into the other participants. A large part of the problem was that Jordan wanted to lead.  
  
"Relax, Jordan; trust me. Surrender yourself to the music."  
  
** Easy for you to say ** Jordan thought, intensely aware of the Elf's arms around her; her pulse rate was rather fast, and she was certain it wasn't because of the dance.  
  
Jordan nodded and closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. Concentrating on the music, she pretended it was Duncan's and not Legolas' hands and body guiding her. the ploy worked, for Jordan was finally able to follow Legola' lead, not noticing they had danced through one song. When the song ended, the Immortal laughed up at the Elf; her green eyes sparkled with her joy at not stumbling over his boots. Legolas' breath caught in his chest.  
  
** Nan Belain, he ssen main (By the Valar, she is beautiful!) ** Legolas thought with surprise.  
  
Unable to help himself, the Elf bent down and brushed his lips softly against Jordan's; the awareness crackled between them like a living thing. They stood there a moment, caught up in each other, before the Elf led her back to their seats. The dancing was over, and the singing began again; this time, the Elves requested Jordan sing a song. The Immortal vigorously demurred their invitation; the Elves, on the other hand, relented in their requests only after the Immortal promised she would sing a song the next evening—on the condition they accompany her with their voices and instruments.  
  
The merriment and revelry continued well into the night; despite wanting to be a part of every minute, Jordan reluctantly decided to call it quits when her eyes grew heavy. Noticing her fatigue, Legolas stood and escorted Jordan back to her quarters; once again, his hand was at the small of her back. As they came to her door, Jordan cleared her throat, wondering if Legolas would kiss her good-night. As if reading her mind, Legolas took a step closer and, with a finger beneath her chin, gently tilted Jordan's chin up. Jordan's lips parted in anticipation as the Mirkwood Elf's face drew nearer. With her pulse racing, Jordan closed her eyes and frowned slightly when the Elf placed a chaste kiss on her forehead; his warm lips lingered as he breathed deeply of her scented hair. Slightly miffed, the Immortal blinked up at the Elf.  
  
"Goodnight, fair Jordan, sleep well." Bowing to her, Legolas left.  
  
Looking after him, Jordan shook her head and entered her quarters; though the kiss wasn't quite what she hoped for, the Immortal couldn't help the wide grin that spread across her face. Carefully hanging her gown in the armoire, the Immortal changed into the sleep shift laid out on her bed. Looking around the room, Jordan saw that her clothes, a cheese and fruit tray and a washbasin with water had been added. Hugging herself, Jordan spun around, remembering the feeling of being in Legolas' arms. The Immortal twirled towards the bed and threw herself onto the feather mattress. Lying on her back, Jordan stared at the ceiling and laughed at herself before climbing between the sheets. With a yawn, the Immortal was asleep before her head hit the pillow.  
  
#  
  
As he made his way back to his quarters, Legolas' mind replayed the night's events. He was hoping Jordan would be well enough to attend the festivities, and placed himself where he could watch all the possible entrances; the Elf was beginning to believe Jordan she was able to attend, when he caught sight of her arrival in the great hall, looking both wary and excited. She was very fair to behold, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from her, all the while trying to hide his amusement at her attempt to hide behind the plants--as if she wouldn't be noticed.  
  
Unfortunately, Elrohir, one of Lord Elrond's twin sons, had chosen that very moment to ask him a question, necessitating the courtesy of eye contact as he answered; after, Legolas' blue eyes searched for Jordan, only to see her leave with the head Healer. Watching her from a distance, the Mirkwood Prince was glad to see Jordan enjoy herself, knowing Elven hospitality would allow nothing less. He decided to retreat to an alcove where he could watch her without being observed. As she ate her meal, Legolas could see her eyes wandering the room. He wondered if she looked for any one in particular. After Jordan had eaten, Legolas watched as she stepped outside for a bit of fresh air. He decided to follow her outside; pausing in the doorway, Legolas saw Jordan shivering in the cool night air. More than that, he sensed the melancholy radiating from the woman, and stepped forward hoping to lift her spirits.  
  
After draping his cloak about her, Legolas wanted only to comfort Jordan at first; however, in the moonlight, the Elf saw her in another light. The image was gone before he could recapture it. Instead, Legolas was left with a compulsion he must obey; the Mirkwood Prince couldn't help himself. He had to touch her.  
  
Tilting Jordan's face to see it better, the Elf saw that her face was whole. He wondered yet again how that was possible. The question stilled on his lips when Jordan's eyes widened, and it was then that he looked at her. Really looked at her. Legolas had never before been attracted to mortal women, yet there was...something about Jordan that reached out to him. She was a virtual stranger, yet he found himself wanting to be by her side as much as possible. Troubled, Legolas decided perhaps a walk would put matters into proper perspective and add clarity to the situation. 


	7. A New Day

Disclaimer: Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue. Lyrics in this chapter are borrowed from 'Flora's Secret'—Enya/A Day Without Rain.  
  
A New Day  
  
An early riser by nature, Jordan awoke while it was still dark outside; the first rays of light had yet to appear. Thoughts of the previous night's events filled her mind. With a smile on her face, the Immortal hummed to herself as she made the bed, neatly hung her shift and placed it in the armoire. After splashing cold water on her face, Jordan brushed her hair in the mirror and decided to go for a very early morning walk.  
  
"I doubt I'll get lost here." She muttered.  
  
Dressed in her own clothes, out of habit, the Immortal strapped on her weapons and settled her overcoat to hide them from sight. On impulse, Jordan reached into her pockets to discover her chocolates were still inside. Grabbing an apple and cheese from the fruit tray, she crossed to the balcony and down the stairs to the courtyard below. Munching her breakfast, the Immortal walked with no particular destination in mind. Enjoying the stillness of the morning, Jordan watched the dark sky slowly lighten.  
  
"None of the national parks back home can even compare to the beauty of Rivendell." Jordan said softly. Though she could see no Elves, thanks to the Buzz, the Immortal felt them.  
  
Further on the woman walked, heading towards a thick grove of trees. When she finally reached it, the Immortal disappeared into the tree line and kept walking, until at last, the wooden sentries parted to reveal a sheltered glade. Jordan cocked her head; her eyes scanned the tree line hemming her in, noting the even lower level of the Buzz.  
  
"I guess you can never be truly alone here" the Immortal said aloud. Her good mood deserted her as she contemplated what she must do.  
  
"Now's a good a time as any; I need to know." She said softly.  
  
Sinking to the ground, Jordan sat cross-legged. The Immortal laid her sticks on the dew-covered grass before her and set her Katana on her lap. Picking up her sword, the woman's fingers hovered above the curved surface, watching as the full tang gleamed in the weak light. Turning it at an angle, the Immortal studied her reflection in the blade. Her green eyes were solemn as she gazed back at herself. With a sigh, Jordan resheathed it and reached for her rattan sticks, inspecting the smooth, polished surfaces that tapered at the ends. Jordan gripped them tightly until her knuckles turned white.  
  
Despite the beauty of Rivendell, and the Elves' hospitality, she felt like a stranger on the outside looking in; yet Jordan found herself becomingly increasingly enthralled with Rivendell . . . and against her better judgment, Legolas. Somehow she found herself briefly wondering where he was at and what he was doing. It'd be better for her if he did not have the ability to send her senses into a tizzy. Such adolescent, juvenile behavior had to stop, the Immortal sternly told herself. But Jordan couldn't stop the smile that touched her lips when she remembered their forest kiss . . or their dance the evening before. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Jordan stood in a fluid motion. Holstering her sticks, she kicked a rock away and began to pace.  
  
"I like it here too much; I must find a way back before I get too attached to this place. It'll make leaving all the harder when Duncan comes. Think, think, think, Jordan!" she muttered.  
  
Inspired, Jordan's pacing came to an abrupt stop. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out one of her peanut butter cups. Tearing the wrapper open, she shook one onto her palm.  
  
"Okay, Alice, it worked for you. Let's see if Wonderland will still be here after I eat this." She said.  
  
The candy was halfway to her mouth when Jordan hesitated. Legolas' face appeared before her, his impossibly blue eyes boring into hers. Before she could change her mind, Jordan took a bite, chewing and swallowing quickly. Nothing. Placing the rest of the confection in her mouth, this time the Immortal chewed slowly and carefully before swallowing. Still nothing.  
  
"Maybe I need to eat the entire thing." she mused to herself.  
  
Jordan set to work on the second chocolate disc. Licking her fingers, she waited. Counting to one hundred in her head, still nothing happened. Frustrated, Jordan continued her pacing before coming to a halt.  
  
"Well, they're not red ruby slippers, but..."  
  
Drawing herself up to her full height, the Immortal clicked her heels thrice as she chanted 'there's no place like home' three times. Still nothing. Improvising, Jordan clicked her heels again, chanting 'there's no place like Seacouver' three times as well, with the same result-- nothing. Resuming her pacing, the Immortal absently toyed with the Leaf at her neck, thinking.  
  
"Of course!" she exclaimed.  
  
Certain this time she'd found her way back, Jordan stood still and took a long last look around the glade.  
  
"I'll miss you." She whispered. Jordan closed her eyes and curled her fingers curled tightly around the Leaf.  
  
"Lothlórien leaf, take me home!" Opening her eyes, the beauty of Rivendell greeted her. Stamping her foot in frustration, Jordan repeated the command.  
  
"Lothlórien leaf, take me home now!" Still nothing. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Jordan sighed.  
  
"Well. I guess that settles it; I'm here for a while." She said with mixed emotions.  
  
Deep down, Jordan was secretly relieved to find she remained in Rivendell. The Immortal sighed to herself again. Her melancholy did not last long as her mood perked up. It was hard to be glum in Rivendell, whose wonders she had yet to explore. If anything, it'd make a fantastic story to tell when she returned.  
  
"It would've been rude of me to leave without thanking Lord Elrond. Or saying goodbye." Jordan reasoned. Yet the image of a certain blonde haired, blue eyed Elf came to mind, not the regal Elf-Lord.  
  
"Might as well make use of this time alone" Jordan said quietly. . Deciding to practice with her sticks, the Immortal focused and cleared her mind. Her thoughts returned to her sparring sessions with Duncan. Repeating the maneuvers, her steps were measured, her movements graceful as she performed the kata. Giving herself over to the joy of the movement and wanting to feel her blood pump through her veins, Jordan increased her speed. After a while, the Immortal switched weapons and joined her sticks.  
  
Pressing a button that locked them together, Jordan spun it several times, feeling for the proper balance, before launching into another practice. As she spun the staff, the Immortal wondered what the day would hold. Jordan knew she would have to make good on her word; somehow she needed to meet with the Elven virtuosos and practice with them, so she wouldn't make a fool of herself. After a moment, the Immortal holstered her sticks, stretched her arms and made her way back.  
  
#  
  
After escorting Jordan back to her quarters, Legolas was restless. Disturbed and intrigued by his feelings for the mortal woman, the Elf changed clothes and strapped his weapons to his lithe body, preparing to patrol Rivendell's borders; instead of taking out his frustrations on Orcs and Uruks as he'd hoped, the night was uneventful, for the trees whispered all was well as the wood Elf passed thru their branches.  
  
The uneventful night afforded the Mirkwood Prince ample time to think about Jordan -- the strange woman whose face was vivid in his mind's eye. Three hundred feet up in the trees' canopy, the pre-dawn found Legolas heading back towards his quarters, nimbly leaping from swaying one swaying branch to another, barely disturbing the leaves as he took his favorite route back. He was almost there when his keen Elven sight spied a lone figure walking. Recognizing Jordan, he followed her. She was eating an apple as she walked. He watched as she dropped the remains of the fruit into a pocket of her strange garb. Following her to the secluded glade, Legolas was confident the woman was unaware of his presence, until she stopped and looked towards his direction. Was it possible she was aware of him? Could she see him? The Elf continued to observe her; their eyes met, and the Prince raised his hand in greeting, but the woman didn't respond, in fact, she seemed to be looking thru him. Legolas couldn't help but wonder.  
  
Lowering herself to the ground, Jordan looked to be lost in thought as she stared at her weapons; she then stood, only to pace the glade. After a moment, the woman pulled a brightly colored packet from her pocket, and consumed its contents. Then she resumed pacing before coming to a halt and hit her heels together; although he was too far away to hear the words, Legolas could see her lips moving as she spoke. The wind stirred the leaves of his perch, the branch swaying slightly in the wind; grasping the bough above him, Legolas continued to watch the woman below.  
  
A smile tugged at his lips as he observed her odd behavior. It faded as her hand clasped the Lórien leaf; their conversation the evening before echoed in his mind as the cool morning breeze clearly carried Jordan's words to him.  
  
"Lothlórien leaf, take me home!"  
  
"She is attempting to return!" he said aloud.  
  
The Elf's blue eyes narrowed as his mind realized what his heart refused to believe; it beat a little faster as he watched, waiting to see what would happen.  
  
"Lothlórien leaf, take me home now!" When nothing happened, Legolas sighed in relief, not realizing he'd held his breath.  
  
Surprised at himself, the Elf didn't have time to ponder his feelings. His eyes were riveted to the woman below who took her sticks out and began some sort of fighting routine; slowly starting until the speed and sureness with which she moved left no doubt she could be a formidable opponent. Legolas continued to watch with interest, as the sticks became a long staff, just inches taller than her. Jordan twirled it a few times, then faster until it blurred. Stabbing, twisting, turning, her long coat swirled around her as she moved.  
  
Effortlessly, Jordan switched to a one handed; without missing a beat, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the apple core. Tossing it high in the air, it shattered when it fell onto the whirling staff. Shortly after, Jordan separated the sticks and tucked them away. Legolas' expression was thoughtful as he watched her walk away, her long, glossy hair and overcoat fanned out behind her in the morning breeze. Jordan Waters was full of surprises.  
  
#  
  
It was dawn when Jordan returned to her quarters. The Immortal felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Invigorated by the early morning exercise, she looked forward to the rest of the day with a clear conscience as she gathered her toiletries and sought out the washroom. Losing her way, a servant came upon her in the hall and escorted her to the room; when finished, Jordan managed to successfully find her way back to her quarters, where she ate more fruit and cheese. Recognizing the Lembas in a covered dish next to the fruit, Jordan broke off a small piece, and nibbled it while inspecting the contents of her armoire. Her stomach feeling decidedly full, the woman passed on the soft breeches, opting to dress in a brown velvet gown with green embroidery; she twirled around, loving the feel of the rich, flowing fabric.  
  
Determined to find the House of Healing, Jordan hoped to talk with Læurenthail. Asking directions from servants, she eventually found it. Hearing her visitor long before she arrived, Læurenthail stood at the doorway as she welcomed Jordan warmly, pleased to see her dressed in Elvish clothing.  
  
"Good morn, Jordan. Are you well?" Læurenthail inquired.  
  
Her sharp eyes noted with mild surprise and interest that Jordan's injuries were completely healed—no trace of hurt was upon her person.  
  
"Good morning, yes, thank you. I just wanted to thank you for your company last night. I had a lovely time. I was hoping to learn a couple things from you, and maybe help you with whatever needs to be done. Back home I work with healers. We call them physicians or doctors."  
  
As Læurenthail worked, Jordan watched, inspecting and sniffing the herbs and poultices. She examined with delighted wonder the healing vessels displayed in the House, some of which she was convinced were beautiful predecessors of modern day apothecaric apparatuses. They spent a good portion of the morning comparing notes on healing; as an added bonus, the Head Healer taught Jordan the basics of Elvish language and etiquette; Læurenthail was pleasantly surprised to discover Jordan was able to articulate the language.  
  
The woman's tongue occasionally stumbled over the pronunciation, but her effort was commendable, for her mind grasped the inflections, if not the meanings; however, it was a start. After several tries, Jordan was able to parrot back words and sentences, as long as they were short. In return, Jordan taught the Healer a few words in both Tagalog and Spanish. To Læurenthail's surprise, the Elven maiden discovered the company of a mortal could be pleasant and somewhat enlightening; as a result, the morning flew by unnoticed. It was mid day when a servant brought an assortment of breads, cheeses and fruits for their meal.  
  
Aware that she was expected to sing at the evening's festivities, Jordan was reluctant to leave the presence of the skilled and knowledgeable she- Elf. Wanting to be somewhat prepared, the Immortal excused herself and made her way to the great hall, where she found a group of Elves looking over the selections of songs for the evening's entertainment.  
  
Recognized as Lord Legolas' and Master Gimli's guest, the minstrels greeted Jordan cordially as they tuned their instruments. Thinking back to her school choir days, Jordan hummed the tune of the song she planned to sing. The Elves' natural aptitude for music made it a simple task to teach them the lyrics. Because of the unfamiliar arrangement of the chords and tempo, they ran through the song twice with a minimum of fine-tuning. Jordan thought fondly about her karaoke nights with her co-workers.  
  
**This beats karaoke any day! * * Jordan thought.  
  
All too soon, it was time to prepare for the feast. The Immortal was amazed at how time escaped her notice in this beautiful place. Back home, it was rush, rush, rush. Bidding the Elves farewell till the evening, Jordan caught herself thinking about Legolas on her way back to her quarters, hoping to see him later that evening.  
  
Successfully finding her way to the washroom, Jordan took her time as she bathed. Back in her quarters, the Immortal marveled at the generosity of the Elves. The gown she wore last night was hanging in the armoire, however, another gown was thoughtfully provided for her, complete with matching slippers: royal blue velvet embellished with silver embroidery; the Immortal touched it reverently as she held it up, admiring the exquisite needlework, for unless Elves owned sewing machines, it had to have been done by hand.  
  
With a whoop of delight, Jordan spun around the room, crushing the gown to her. Eagerly shedding her robe, the Immortal carefully slipped it over her head. The gown settled over her body like a gentle caress. Feeling like a medieval princess, the woman looked at her reflection, turning to inspect herself from different angles, her hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles.  
  
"No doubt they want me to look presentable." The Immortal told her reflection as she laughed.  
  
By the time Jordan finishes preparing for the evening, once again, the feast was well under way by the time the Immortal arrived. Stopping by Lord Elrond's table to greet her host, they exchanged pleasantries before the Elf-Lord bade the Immortal enjoy herself. Deciding a handshake or wave 'good bye' was inappropriate; Jordan genuflected to the Elven Lord before doing as she was instructed.  
  
This time the Immortal was accompanied by Læurenthail, who stayed by her side as they listened to the Elves' tale telling. Too nervous to eat, the woman discreetly searched the gathering for a particular fair head; her gaze wandered around the room. Spying Gimli drinking with a group of Elves, Jordan waved and smiled to him when he raised his tankard in greeting. All too soon the time for singing came. Several songs were sung by the Elves, much to Jordan's enjoyment. Thinking they changed their minds on hearing her sing, Jordan relaxed—until it was announced that Lord Elrond's guest would share a song from her land.  
  
Knowing she must sound like a frog next to these wondrous beings, Jordan hoped their voices and instruments would drown hers out. the Immortal's hands were cold and sweaty as she made her way to the raised platform where the minstrels waited. Jordan took a goblet of what she was told was Miruvor, the Cordial of Imladris, from a passing servant. Eyeing the clear, colorless liquid dubiously, Jordan was unsure about the alcoholic content. Although she didn't drink alcoholic beverages, tonight she was willing to make an exception.  
  
*Liquid courage* she thought wryly.  
  
Taking a healthy swig, Jordan swished it around her mouth, fighting the urge to gargle before swallowing the slightly thick, spicy sweet drink; its invigorating warmth spread throughout her body and to the pit of her stomach, bolstering her courage. Jordan cleared her throat as the opening strains filled the air. Looking at the expectant faces surrounding her, the Immortal took a deep breath; her clear tenor, though soft, increased in volume when the haunting voices of the Elves in the background blended with and strengthened hers:  
  
Lovers in the Long grass  
Look above them  
Only they can see  
Where the clouds are going  
Only to discover  
Dust and sunlight  
Ever make the sky so blue  
  
Afternoon is hazy  
River flowing  
All around the sounds  
Moving closer to them  
Telling them the story  
Told by Flora  
Dreams they never knew  
  
A collective murmur came from the Elves as her voice floated across the room; before long, some were dancing, others were smiling and nodding in approval, their heads moving in time with the music. Jordan's voice grew still stronger as she sang; the combination of the Miruvor, the song and the beautiful beings made Jordan feel she belonged to this magical place, if only for a brief moment.  
  
Silver willows  
Tears from Persia  
Those who come from a far-off island  
Winter Chanterelle lies  
Under cover  
Glory-of-the-sun in blue  
  
Arriving late, Legolas checked on Gimli, who appeared to be having a grand time with the Elves gathered around the ale and Miruvor casks, trading battle tales as he extolled the prowess of the Dwarves. After speaking briefly with Lord Elrond, the Wood Elf went to get a bite to eat, filling his plate with the delicacies Rivendell had to offer; as he ate, his bright eyes searched the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jordan.  
  
Overhearing snatches of conversation about 'the woman' and 'singing', Legolas stopped a passing maiden, to be told Jordan was to sing a song as she promised the even before. Handing his empty plate to a servant, he followed the music. Watching from across the room, the golden Elf saw the trembling of Jordan's hand as she lifted a goblet from a passing tray; taking a gulp of the potent liquid, her cheeks and nose became pink as she composed herself, slowly mounting the steps to the dais.  
  
Knowing no mortal could compare with an Elf in song, he wondered how she would fare, when her clear voice carried across the room, accompanied by the minstrels. Legolas had to admit she was fairly good—for a mortal. He stepped out from the shadows into view, drawn by the yearning in her voice. Taking in her appearance, the gown skimmed her curves, again showing them off to her advantage, the Leaf of Lórien rested in the hollow of her throat. Jordan's green eyes glittered in the light, her black hair, worn loose framed her face. Swaying in time to the music, the woman smiled when she saw him, before shifting her gaze to the dancers below sweeping gracefully by. This stranger awakened a longing in the Mirkwood Prince that could not be ignored for much longer. Legolas continued to watch, his fingers twitching at his side, remembering the silky feel of her hair.  
  
Some they know as passion  
Some as freedom  
Some they know as love  
And the way it leaves them  
Summer snowflake  
For a season  
When the sky above is blue  
When the sky above is blue  
Lying in the long grass  
Close beside her  
Giving her the name of the one the moon loves  
This will be the day she  
Will remember  
When she knew his heart was  
Loving in the long grass  
Close beside her  
Whispering of love  
And the way it leaves them  
Lying in the long grass  
In the sunlight  
They believe it's true love  
And from all around them  
Flora's secret  
Telling them of love and the way it breathes and  
Looking up from eyes of  
Amaranthine  
They can see the sky is blue  
Knowing that their love is true  
Dreams they never knew  
And they sky above is blue  
  
Before the final strains faded away, the Elves clapped their hands, crying out "Again!" as the room took it up. Delighted and fortified with the Miruvor, Jordan complied. Once again the song was sung, this time the entire room in motion as the Elves danced and lifted their voices in song.  
  
While the minstrels continued to play, an Elf went up to the dais, pulling Jordan down to dance. Glancing at Legolas before she was led down the steps, he inclined his head in acknowledgement. Gazing up at her partner, a noble Elf she was acquainted with, Jordan smiled politely as he led her in the steps. To her credit, she didn't stumble. Trying to be subtle, the Immortal glanced where Legolas was standing, to see he was gone. Disappointed, she continued to chat politely with her partner.  
  
"May I have this dance?"  
  
Behind her, Legolas quiet voice felt like a caress. With a nod to Jordan and a bow to the fair Elf, her partner placed her hand in Legolas' before he stepped away. Legolas enfolded her hand in his, and again, a delicious shiver went up her arm to her neck and down her spine. Luminescent blue eyes held her spellbound as they danced in silence. After a moment, Legolas spoke.  
  
"Mae carnen."  
  
"Huh?" Jordan mentally kicked herself as soon as she uttered it, for it was not exactly an articulate word suitable for the present company. It was Legolas' turn to look confused.  
  
"I left my Elvish to Common translation book in Seacouver." She joked feebly. A smile tugged at the Elf's lips.  
  
"Well done." Legolas translated. The Elf's compliment made Jordan laugh.  
  
"Compared to Elves, I sound horrible, but I thank you anyways. I was petrified. But, because I had help I was able to sing." She said.  
  
As the song ended, another began. Leading her away from the dance floor, they sat, watching the merry makers. Legolas entertained Jordan with stories about the Elves he pointed out, and answered her questions; after a while, they fell into companionable silence. Wanting to be alone with her, Legolas stood; holding her hand, the Elf led Jordan outside to a shadowed corner, where they stood at the railing, gazing up at the stars twinkling overhead. The Elf seemed to be lost in thought. For a long time, he didn't speak as he gazed at something in the distance—Jordan was beginning the think he'd forgotten she was there. Clearing her throat, the Immortal spoke softly.  
  
"'Second star to the right and straight on till morning.'" Jordan quoted with a smile as the Elf looked questioningly at her.  
  
"Home." She said.  
  
Legolas studied her face, and though his face was serene, the expression in his warm blue gaze seemed . . . troubled. Jordan suddenly regretted her interruption. Falling silent, she looked away.  
  
"Tonight is the last night of the festivities, then the Orcs are to be dealt with. As Lord Elrond wishes, I am to go with the hunting party. When I return, I shall help you--" Legolas' words were silenced as Jordan placed a finger softly to his lips.  
  
"Shhh...tonight let us enjoy the evening." The Immortal teasingly said, echoing his words.  
  
The smile on Jordan's face faded when the Elf caught her hand and placed a warm kiss on her palm. Holding her breath, Jordan watched as Legolas placed it against his face, his skin was as she imagined -- warm and smooth. The Immortal watched in fascination when his golden head bent closer; his lips brushed hers with a soft, inquiring quality to it. Raising her head, Jordan answered his kiss with one of her own. Legolas' free arm encircled her waist and pulled her tight against his body as he buried his hand in her hair, deepening the kiss. Jordan could feel the Elf's arousal as it pressed against her. All too soon Legolas broke away, placing gentle kisses on her cheeks, nose and forehead.  
  
"Were we to continue, Orcs could not stop us." His ragged voice gave away the strain it took to control himself.  
  
Dazed, Jordan simply stared at him. Legolas looked at Jordan: her eyes were dilated to the point that the green was almost entirely eclipsed by her pupils. The woman's lips were swollen with his kiss, and her hair was in slight disarray, her bosom rose and fell as she breathed, trying hard to calm herself. The desire in the Elf's eyes burned with intensity that made the Immortal shiver. By mutual consent, they returned to the feast, and once again, when the revelry ended, Legolas escorted Jordan back to her quarters. This time, he did not so much as kiss her hand. Inside her quarters, Jordan changed into her shift then set about preparing for bed.  
  
"What was that all about?" she asked aloud.  
  
Jordan didn't know whether to curse of bless the Elf, for he was complicating matters. . . and shifting her focus. The Immortal knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, for her mind would replay the balcony scene in an endless loop. Restless, Jordan sat up in bed; wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her chin on her knees. Staring at the dying flames in the hearth, Jordan thought about Legolas. She had been kissed before, some of which were quite memorable, but the kiss from Legolas was...beyond incredible.  
  
He made her toes curl; with a look he made her feel faint. When he kissed her, Jordan swore her blood boiled in her veins and her body felt as if she were on fire. His touch . . . Jordan shivered at the thought of his touch; her imagination ran wild, conjuring images of she and the Elf locked in a passionate embrace.  
  
"Yeah, like that will ever happen." The Immortal snorted.  
  
Shaking her head, Jordan laughed and hugged herself, unable to stop the grin that plastered her face. No, she'd never felt quite like this about anyone—much less a kiss. The last time Jordan felt something remotely close was with ** Him **.  
  
Like a bucketful of cold water in the face, the thought of * Him * was enough to erase the smile from the Immortal's face, as the hurt and embarrassment returned in excruciatingly vivid detail. Forcefully pushing it out of her mind, Jordan questioned the rules of attraction in Rivendell.  
  
"Okay, what's the code of conduct between Elves and Humans?" Jordan wondered. An uneasy feeling filled the pit of her stomach. "Maybe—maybe I'm too direct. Am I supposed to be coy?" she wondered aloud. It'd been so long since she'd dated, the Immortal was unsure of what to do and how to act.  
  
"He probably thinks I'm sort of hussy, too willing to kiss him and be kissed by him" Jordan muttered sourly.  
  
"What've you done to me, Legolas Greenleaf, son of Tharanduil? You must've put an Elvish spell on me." She whispered harshly to the flickering flames.  
  
The Elf made her feel alive, and if Jordan was honest with herself she would acknowledge that she was teetering on the edge of . . . something.  
  
"What exactly is going on here? Am I imagining things, or is there  
something happening between us?" Jordan asked aloud, filled with uncertainty and confusion.  
  
In Legolas' presence, Jordan forgot she was from another time and another place, a displaced traveler. It would be hard to maintain a platonic friendship with the Elf, but in the long run, it would be for the best. An occasional kiss or caress wouldn't hurt. . . or could it? The Immortal shook her head to clear her mind. The Elf was not only distracting -- he clouded her judgment without even trying.  
  
"I will keep my distance, no matter what. I must—for both our sakes." Jordan vowed.  
  
With a sigh, Jordan lay down; sleep eluded her as she tossed and turned. When she did finally sleep, dark was her dream. The Immortal was back in Trollshaw Forest; a sense of déja vû engulfed her as she looked around. Fear. Every instinct in her body propelled her forward; the air was thick with silver fog as she ran. Jordan's limbs felt heavy, as if she were moving in slow motion. Behind her, she could hear muffled sounds. The Immortal wasn't planning on discovering its source. Overhead, the steady 'whomp, whomp, whomp' of helicopter blades beat the air in its slow, rhythmic drone. Coming to a stop in a clearing, the mist hung heavy in the air. A shadow was taking shape.  
  
Swallowing hard, Jordan reached for her Katana. The Immortal panicked when her hand closed around air; looking down, Jordan was dismayed to discover she was clad only in her sleeping shift, barefoot, weaponless and vulnerable. Looking up, in the distance before her stood Duncan, the Highlander wore an expression of great relief on his face. When he saw her, he fanned his Katana before resting the gleaming blade against his shoulder and reached out to her with his other hand. With a feeling of joyous urgency, Jordan ran towards her Mentor. The Younger Immortal's steps slowed and she came to an abrupt stop as another figure materialized. Legolas stood beside Duncan, his crystal blue eyes burning into hers, a smile on his handsome face as he held his hand out to her.  
  
*Jordan, come home...*  
  
: : Come with me...: :  
  
The Highlander and the Elf's expressions became pleading as they reached for Jordan; their voices became indistinct as they repeated their whispered pleas over and over. The words became one and reverberated in Jordan's head. The Immortal stumbled backwards with her hands clapped tightly over her ears, trying to block out their voices that shouted insistently from everywhere and nowhere.  
  
With a jolt, Jordan sat up, wide-eyed; her chest heaved as she panted for breath. Moonlight streamed in thru the window, illuminating the room in its silvery glow. Her legs were tangled in the bed sheets, her hair and shift damp with perspiration. Shivering as the cool night air evaporated the perspiration on her body, Jordan turned her pillows over to the dry side before untangling her legs and climbing out. Padding slowly to the armoire, she brushed her hair out and splashed cold water on her face and changed into a fresh shift.  
  
Rather than return to bed, Jordan sat on the carved bench on the balcony outside and faced her quarters. The Ithildin inlaid into the stone glowed brightly in the moonlight; the Immortal's eyes followed the swirls and runes upward, where they climbed up the ornately carved sides like a living thing. Jordan stood; her bare feet hardly felt the cold stones as she walked. Reaching out to touch the walls, her hands traced the carvings.  
  
Without thinking, Jordan began to scale the wall, her hands and toes unerringly finding purchase as she climbed. The woman's thoughts briefly traveled back to her childhood, when she would climb the tall coconut and mango trees on her father's plantation. She should have been in school studying.  
  
Seated on the roof, the panoramic view of Rivendell at night was spread before her; the outlying lands beyond lay shrouded in shadow and mist, vaguely reminiscent of the vestiges of her dark dream. Unmindful of the cold, damp air, Jordan wrapped her arms around her knees and stared out across Rivendell until the sun's first rays appeared above the horizon. 


	8. Explore Your World

Disclaimer: Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue  
  
Note: For those of you following this story--thank you for your  
patience; I especially appreciate and thank those who have taken the  
time to send feedback and encouragement-you know who you are!!!! My  
sincere apologies for butchering the Elvish language; my main source  
is www.gray-company.org. what a wonderful site!  
  
Explore Your World  
  
Dawn found Jordan asleep on the roof. Slowly the sun rose in the sky, gradually burning away the haze enveloping the lands beyond Rivendell. Golden fingers of light gently touched the sleeping Immortal. Curled up in a ball, the Immortal frowned, the chill in the air rousing her from peaceful slumber. Her hands searched for the bed sheets she'd kicked off. There were none; instead, she touched cold stone. Drowsily, Jordan yawned, opened her eyes and looked around. No wonder she was cold.  
  
"I must've dozed off." she murmured.  
  
Slowly sitting up, the Immortal shivered in the cold morning air, Jordan stretched her stiff limbs; rubbing her arms vigorously, she forced her blood to circulate warmth. From her high vantage point, in the distance below were the graceful forms of Elves going about their usual morning activities. Aware of their keen eyesight, she carefully climbed down from the roof-hopefully before Lord Elrond received word of his guest's odd behavior.  
  
After a hurried bath, the Immortal slipped into a butter soft brown tunic and matching leggings, stuffing a small satchel with fruit and Lembas on the spur of the moment. Jordan quickly slung it over her shoulder as she walked towards the balcony and down the stairs. Seeking privacy to brood over her state of affairs, Jordan made her way towards the glade, avoiding as many Elves as possible without being rude. Try as she might to remember her dream, the details eluded her -- vanishing like mist on the water, yet the feeling of despair and foreboding remained.  
  
Passing thru the dew-covered glade, Jordan's footsteps bent the emerald hued grass, leaving a visible trail behind her. Striding towards the thick grove of trees, the Immortal's feet carried her deep within the grove, farther than she'd ever ventured before. Absorbed in her thoughts, the grandeur of the trees passed by unnoticed, until finally, Jordan's progress was abruptly halted when she splashed into a stream intersecting her path. Jordan blinked several times as the cold water rushed over her boots. She stared at the water blankly; her mind belatedly registered its presence-as if it suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Hastily backing out of the stream, Jordan shook the water off her leather boots before turning in a slow circle, studying her surroundings. Save for the stream merrily tinkling in its bed, it was quiet and still; the solemn mood permeating the air made the Immortal feel she was on Holy Ground . . .  
  
: : : : St. Ignacio Memorial Park Manila, Philippines September 1945  
  
Two months after her parents' departure, Jordan was learning the basics about the Game; standing in the middle of a cemetery, she faced the Highlander. Headstones, statues, and crosses stood as silent sentinels to those resting in the hallowed soil.  
  
"Why have you brought me here?" she asked; the place gave her the willies.  
  
Jordan didn't like being out late at night in such a creepy place; so chill was the air, their breath was visible as vaporous puffs. Looking around, she shuddered; the grave markers glowed eerily in the moon's light-- bleached bones in the light of the midnight sun. Edging closer to Duncan, she looked at him expectantly. Standing at the wall of the mausoleum, they gazed at one plaque in particular.  
  
Jordan Milagros Waters  
Born: June 19, 1924  
Died: July 3, 1945  
  
Beloved Daughter  
Gone To A Better Life  
  
* * How strange. * * Jordan thought, as she stared at the plaque. Her fingers traced the raised bronzed letters.  
  
"Who's ashes are in there?" she wondered aloud.  
  
"Someone who would've ended up in a university lab or buried in an unmarked grave. It doesn't matter." The Highlander said quietly as he watched Jordan's reaction.  
  
"I never even got to say 'good-bye', Duncan. I should've told them I loved them while I could. Now they'll never know!" Jordan wailed.  
  
Tears welled up in her eyes; a glistening drop of moisture escaped and slowly trailed its way down her cheek. Tenderly, Duncan wiped it away with his thumb, only to see it replaced by another, and followed by another as Jordan cried her grief and pain. The Highlander sighed and pulled her close; Jordan's arms went around him, clutching him tight as she sobbed. Resting his chin atop her head, Duncan gave Jordan a reassuring hug when she finally stilled and composed herself.  
  
"Will it get easier?" she asked, sniffling.  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not; time will tell." He replied.  
  
Reaching into his overcoat, the Clansman pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it into Jordan's hand. His dark eyes studied the rest of the plaques neatly centered on the compartments. Jordan dried her tear-stained face before she blew her nose noisily. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and looked up at her Teacher, giving him a watery, tremulous smile.  
  
"I needed that." Jordan said as she drew in a shaky breath.  
  
"Better?" he asked as she took another deep breath. Jordan nodded before her eyes took on a sudden, panicked look.  
  
"I'm all alone, now, Duncan . . ! " the unpleasant reality Jordan held at bay since her death struck her with all its awful truth.  
  
"I have no one!" Jordan felt her loss anew, and she burst into tears again, the wrenching sobs that came from his student tore at the Highlander's heart. He couldn't blame her for taking it so hard.  
  
"Jordie, Jordie --- you have me. As long as I live, I'll be there for you. No matter what." The Highlander promised as he stroked her back.  
  
"Really?" she asked in a tiny voice.  
  
"Really." Duncan reassured her.  
  
"Promise?" leaning back in his arms, Jordan searched his dark eyes.  
  
"I promise." The Highlander replied before leaning his forehead against hers.  
  
"Duncan?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"If . . . if I were to lose my head, will you --"  
  
"Yes." He said firmly, looking her in the eyes. Somehow Duncan always knew how to make her feel better. Jordan needed to know she still mattered to someone - to know that somewhere out there, someone still cared about her. The Scotsman gave his student another hug before releasing her.  
  
"From the ashes of your old life, a new one begins. You're one of us now; if you want to stay alive, you must learn to take care of yourself. This is Holy Ground." His face solemn, Duncan spread his arms wide, the gesture encompassing the nearby church and burial plots. Duncan's hushed voice could've been a shout, for the night was cold and still; his words echoed hollowly in the cavernous building.  
  
"'Holy Ground'?" Jordan repeated.  
  
"Any place held sacred by any religion is considered Holy Ground and off limits to a Challenge."  
  
"Is that carved in stone?" She said, smirking at the play on words. Duncan gave her a hard look.  
  
"Be serious! This is the only place you'll ever be safe. Your only refuge." The Highlander snapped at her, his voice low. Duncan had never taken that tone of voice with her. Mortified, Jordan nodded, her head bowed.  
  
"Why is my only safety in Holy Ground?" She asked meekly.  
  
"Because it's tradition, and the Code, or Rules of the Game, forbids it. Even the worst of us will not violate this rule." : : : :  
  
#  
  
Coming back to herself, Jordan blinked and the memory faded; she remembered that night vividly. A wistful smile appeared on her face.  
  
"Let's see how far the rabbit hole goes." She said.  
  
Jordan resumed walking, stopping only when the trees grew so close together, they appeared impassable. Eyes closed, she stood unmoving, concentrating . . . stretching her senses. The Buzz was barely perceptible. Satisfied, the Immortal looked about in wonder at the natural beauty surrounding her; the hushed, tranquil atmosphere acted a balm, soothing her troubled spirit. With each breath, the earthy scent of the forest filled her nostrils, the trees were glorious --dark green leaves filtered the sunlight, dappling the forest floor with an ever changing pattern of light and shadow, giving the area an otherworldly feel.  
  
Strong branches stretched high above, as if reaching for the sun. On a whim, she decided to climb one. With a running start, Jordan jumped up and caught the lowest branch she could reach. Swinging, she hooked a leg over the branch and pulled herself up. Grasping the bough above her, she climbed higher and higher, until the branches could not longer safely support her weight. Comfortably ensconced in a sturdy forked limb, her back against the tree's trunk, she looked down at the forest floor far below; the highest trees she climbed in her childhood were half the height of the tree she was resting in. Jordan realized with a start she thought of Duncan and home less frequently--even more disquieting, was the fact that Rivendell felt like home.  
  
Knowing she shouldn't be so high up, especially if she needed to descend in a hurry, Jordan stubbornly remained where she was.  
  
** I don't care if I fall out. I'll heal. ** Jordan thought with a cavalier attitude.  
  
** Unless I break my neck. Who'll set it straight until I revive? ** It was a sobering thought.  
  
Promising herself she'd return before darkness fell, the Immortal fished out a pear from her satchel, eating it slowly as she thought about Duncan and home , for the two were one and the same.  
  
** Where are you, Highlander? Are you looking for me, do you even know how- is it even within your abilities to find me? **  
  
Jordan's thoughts turned to the comforts of home. Her mouth watered as she remembered the juicy burgers and ice cream sundaes served 24 hours at her favorite diner. She could almost hear the beef patties sizzle; almost smell the fragrance of mushrooms and onions grilling. Elven food was delicious-in it's own way, but she missed junk food all the same. With a sigh, she watched the dust motes dance in the air thru half lidded eyes.  
  
Enjoying the solitude, she continued to think of home; her thoughts turned to her co-workers, wondering if she'd still have a job when she returned. A frown creased her brow as she tried to remember if she sent her car payment in the mail before her . . . arrival. Jordan didn't have time to think about it as the Buzz alerted her to someone's arrival. Sitting up, the Immortal imagined herself as an eagle on her nest as she leaned far over the branch. Watching the forest floor below for movement, she wondered who would appear.  
  
"'Quel amrun. Mani naa lle umien? (Good morning. What are you doing?)"  
  
Surprised and shocked to hear Legolas' voice above her, Jordan whipped around, slipping from her perch in the process. With an unladylike curse, she began to plummet, and would've crashed thru every branch on her way down-had not Legolas immediately leaped down from his bough above and reached for her. Effortlessly hauling Jordan up by the front of her tunic, he pulled her onto the limb where he stood and held her tight. The Immortal clung to him, trembling, her heart beating a mile a minute. One horrible second she was suspended in the air-anticipating a painful fall- the next she was safe in Legolas' arms. Talk about going from one extreme to the other.  
  
"Amin hiraetha, lirimaer ( I'm sorry, lovely one)" he murmured, stroking her back soothingly.  
  
"H-h-huh?" Shaken, she couldn't quite speak.  
  
"I did not mean to startle you. Forgive me." Legolas said, glad for the excuse to hold her close.  
  
"Don't you ever do that again!" Jordan exclaimed hotly.  
  
Recovering her composure, the Immortal released her hold on the Elf and leaned back in his arms as she glared at him. Legolas smiled; she was even prettier when angry, for her eyes flashed and spat green fire. Incensed, Jordan punched him hard in the shoulder. He didn't even flinch. Instead, the Elf released her. Eyes wide open, Jordan fell back- and into his arms. Infuriated, she struggled in earnest, not caring if he really did let her fall this time. Her efforts were futile; he was much too strong for her. Jordan opened her mouth to curse at him, and Legolas covered it with his. Livid, she at first resisted his kiss, squirming like an eel in his arms.  
  
No matter which way she turned, he followed. Despite her best intentions, Jordan's anger melted under the Elf's tender onslaught.  
  
** It's just a kiss . . . what harm could it do? ** the Immortal thought.  
  
Legolas' tongue lightly traced her lips. Nipping her bottom lip, the Elf gently suckled it before his tongue slipped into her mouth when her lips parted, welcoming him; Jordan's arms pulled him closer. Legolas tasted the pear she had eaten earlier as he tenderly plundered her mouth, one hand was buried in her dark hair, the other roamed across her back, caressing her waist, before sliding down to her bottom, alternately cupping and gently squeezing her buttocks. Jordan sighed into his mouth, as she leaned into him.  
  
His arousal was obvious; the woman in her felt empowered-this magnificent Elf found her desirable! Feeling naughty, she pressed her hips closer, her body molding to his.  
  
As they continued to kiss high up in the tree, an insistent voice in her mind clamored for her to keep her distance. Ignoring it, Jordan lost herself in the Elf, reveling in his strength, savoring the taste of his kiss, and the sheer bliss of being in his arms.  
  
Legolas felt dreadful for literally startling her out of the tree--the thought of her coming to harm caused his heart to tighten, the fear as real as if he were the one in danger. Though she was never in any real danger, once he had caught her and she safe within his arms, he couldn't resist teasing her-her eyes sparkled most becomingly when happy or angry. He kissed her thoroughly once more before nuzzling her neck. Jordan struggled to compose herself; it took everything she had to not jump on Legolas and smother him with kisses.  
  
"Forgive me, Arwenamin (my lady). I will never let you come to harm." Remembering the reason for her anger, her eyes narrowed; without warning, Jordan pulled his ear.  
  
"Tanya awra! (That hurt!)" Legolas rubbed his ear, looking at her accusingly.  
  
Instantly she regretted her childish act. Capturing his face between her hands, he resisted for a moment.  
  
"Its my turn to ask your forgiveness." She murmured.  
  
Pulling his head down, Jordan kissed his lips and traced his cheek with her lips. She kissed her way to his injured ear, nuzzling it with the tip of her nose. Slowly, she traced the contours of his ear with her tongue, lingering over the pointy tip, smiling at his sharp intake of breath as his arms tightened around her.  
  
**Aha! ** her mind stored away that bit of useful information.  
  
Covering his ear with tiny kisses, Jordan licked the sensitive point, gently nibbling his earlobe, kissing it again before she released him. Legolas' cerulean blue eyes were dilated, the desire in his face made Jordan's eyes widen. They stared at each other for several seconds before Legolas pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes, wondering how this woman whom he barely knew cast a spell on him. Enchantress.  
  
"I forgive you, Melamin." He murmured, his voice hoarse. Jordan smiled, laughing softly as he hugged her tight, glad he was there with her.  
  
"Are you planning to sleep here tonight, Jordan?" he inquired.  
  
* * Only if you join me. * * she thought.  
  
"No." the Immortal replied. She was still thinking about his kiss.  
  
"Khila amin (follow me)."  
  
* * Gladly. * * she thought.  
  
Legolas lead the way down, the bow and quiver strapped to his back didn't impede his progress; looking down, Jordan saw two white handled weapons secured to his back. Wondering what they were, she didn't ask, intent on trying to not step on his hands-again. Descending was far trickier and more difficult than ascending; Legolas waited for her, placing her feet on footholds when she would've slipped, steadying her when she faltered, encouraging her when she encountered splinters. Thirty feet above the ground, Legolas stood on a branch. Without pause, he stepped off, and landed on his feet as if he were only two inches above the ground. Looking up into the tree where Jordan stood clutching a branch, he held his arms open wide.  
  
"Jump-I will catch you." He called to her. Jordan looked at the Elf as if he lost his mind.  
  
"Yeah, right! You don't ask for much, do you?" she called down to him disbelievingly.  
  
Lifting her onto a horse was one thing, but to drop her full weight on him at that height-not to mention the force of gravity and the momentum that would accompany her-seemed ludicrous at best, if not downright impossible.  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea, Legolas. I'll climb down." She called down to him. As if reading her mind, he replied,  
  
"I will not let you come to harm, nor will you hurt me."  
  
"Legolas, I'm at least twenty feet above you." She reasoned.  
  
"Thirty." He correct.  
  
"Are you crazy?!" Jordan exclaimed; looking down, she could see another branch directly below her. If she was careful, she could probably reach it . . .  
  
"Jordan, please. Trust me. It will be dark soon, and there are other things in the forest beside us." He said. The Elf knew full well there was nothing in Imladris that would harm them; Legolas decided to keep that bit of information to himself. Besides, he was quite capable of defending and protecting her, should the need arise.  
  
"What kind of things?" Jordan asked, uneasy.  
  
"Things with teeth." He replied. It wasn't a total lie, for the squirrels, foxes and other small creatures did indeed have teeth.  
  
"Big teeth?" she asked worriedly.  
  
"Do you really want to discover that for yourself?" Legolas asked, his tone ominous.  
  
The woman in the trees looked down at him, undecided. Legolas waited patiently, knowing he was asking much from her. Catching the satchel she dropped to him, the Elf set it on the ground, taking it as a good sign. The longer he spent with her, the more Legolas hoped she would come to trust him-in more ways than one.  
  
Jordan didn't relish the thought of climbing down the rest of the way, especially after plucking several large splinters from her palms during their descent. Given the alternative, she decided having a devastatingly sexy Elf as a landing cushion wasn't a bad thing. If he missed, he'd have to carry her all the way back-which didn't seem like such an awful idea, either . . . unless, if he got hurt, she'd have to carry him back to Rivendell. Thirty feet seemed like such a long way down . . . Jordan remained where she was, worrying her lower lip. A thousand reasons to not jump flitted thru her mind.  
  
* This is crazy! Do it Jordan-just do it. * she thought, psyching herself up.  
  
Closing her eyes, Jordan hoped for the best; she stepped off the branch, ending her internal debate. With an involuntary cry, the Immortal plunged towards the ground; the terrifying feeling of weightlessness sent her stomach churning. Suddenly, the sensation ceased. Cautiously peeking thru her lashes, Legolas' impossibly blue eyes peered at her, a big grin on his gorgeous face. He remained upright. Nor did it seem as if his back hurt.  
  
"You must have eaten well for lunch." He commented.  
  
"I did. I had a whole pot of stew, three loaves of bread, five glasses of ale, and a wheel of cheese. And a pear." Jordan said tartly.  
  
"Yes, I can feel it. You must have been famished, for I do not see the pot and glasses. Did you eat them as well?" Legolas inquired, pretending to stagger beneath her weight.  
  
The Immortal threw her head back and laughed with relief and delight. She liked that the Elf had a sense of fun and humor; unfortunately for her, it added to his already great appeal. Jordan still could not quite believe he caught her, yet there she was in his arms; the still forest rang with the sound of her giddy laughter. Despite her determination to keep him at arm's length, her heart was treacherous. Legolas was amazing, and to her eyes, she was beginning to see him as larger than life.  
  
Legolas playfully tossed her in the air as if she weighed no more than a child, catching her easily before he spun her around. Jordan threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close while the forest whirled into a green blur; the only thing in focus was Legolas, and that suited her fine. Her decision to jump was symbolic of everything about this.adventure: trust in the Elf, willingness to suspend her disbelief and live for the moment. But that small voice in the back of her mind reminded her she didn't belong here.  
  
* * Just for today. * * she begged herself.  
  
* * Then I promise I'll behave. * *  
  
Setting her gently on her feet, Legolas held her hand, leading her forward. Unresisting, Jordan followed as Legolas led her deeper into the forest. He showed her deeply shadowed hollows and hidden waterfalls, laughing when she vigorously declined his invitation to explore the dark caves. As they explored, Legolas taught her a bit of the Elvish language, which Jordan dutifully parroted back. During their hike, Legolas pointed out various plants noted for their healing properties; one in particular, Athelas-or Kingsfoil, seemed to be the middle-earth equivalent to a 'cure all', at least for many ailments.  
  
Jordan marveled at the variety of flowers; among them were anemones, and other unfamiliar blooms growing rampant, carpeting the forest floor in living, vivid color. She breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet fragrance rising from the flowers. Legolas' head cocked to the side, listening. Leaving her to enjoy the flowers, he silently walked towards a tree partly obscured by thick underbrush; a small, well-worn path was hidden by the growth. Gesturing for her to come, Legolas whispered loud enough for her to hear:  
  
"Dina (be silent)" Legolas said as he placed a finger to his lips.  
  
Holding a branch aside for her, he pulled her closer to him. Jordan swallowed, assuming he was going to kiss her. She braced herself to resist when he inclined his head, indicating she should look. Puzzled and slightly miffed, she did. Less than five feet away stood a doe with her twin fawns, their light brown coats dotted with white. Nervous, the doe's ears twitched, her black nose testing the air.  
  
Jordan didn't move, transfixed by the sight before her. The doe was much larger than what she expected, the fawns tiny in comparison. Frolicking at their mother's hooves, they paused, sensing their presence; one fawn wobbled towards them-it stopped two feet away, curious. Jordan was convinced if she reached out, she could touch it, when, as if responding to a silent command, the little one returned to it's mother's side, re-joining it's twin. The doe looked at them, ears twitching, before silently leading her pair deeper into the forest. Jordan watched them leave, still in awe.  
  
Looking up to see the Elf scrutinizing her closely, she was intensely aware of their close proximity. Legolas' eyes were so clear, so blue; she could stare at him forever. As his face neared, her lips parted, anticipating another kiss, when the insistent voice in her mind warned her to be careful, to keep her distance, for she was in Rivendell only until Duncan came for her. It whispered in her ear to heed the warning that came to her in a dream. Reluctantly, Jordan remembered. The Immortal sneezed and stepped away from the Elf. The moment was gone. Ruined. Legolas followed, a frown marring his smooth face.  
  
"Mani naa ta?(What is it?)"  
  
"Oh, umm--just my allergies. I think we'd better go back." She lied, keeping her eyes averted as she walked away.  
  
"Al-allur.?" he stumbled over the unfamiliar word.  
  
"'Allergy.' An allergen is something that makes you sneeze. 'Allergies' for plural." Jordan rubbed her nose and sniffed several times for good measure.  
  
Legolas was mystified; the untruth was as plain as if she had shouted it. Slightly hurt that she rebuffed his kiss, he reached for her hand.  
  
** Oh, Legolas, you're not making this easy for me . . . ** her heart whispered.  
  
Jordan's resolve was rapidly fading. The Immortal knew she was sending mixed signals, but she couldn't help herself. There were too many conflicting emotions she was feeling when the Elf was near; both her sane, rational head and her feeling, emotional heart dictated her actions, resulting in one very confused Immortal. At this precise moment, her heart won; deciding it best to wean herself from him slowly-rather than cold turkey, Jordan's fingers curled around his. They hadn't gone far when the Elf stopped. Jordan looked at him questioningly.  
  
"Rivendell is that way." Legolas smiled at her, indicating the opposite direction with a nod over his shoulder. Cheeks flaming, Jordan grinned back.  
  
"I knew that!" Laughing together, Legolas pulled her in the right direction. The shadow of her rejection vanished as they shared the joke, his good humor returning.  
  
"You do not fear high places. What were you doing?"  
  
"I was thinking about home." Jordan replied.  
  
Legolas' lighthearted mood deserted him. Home. Why did the simple word unsettle him so, the Elf wondered; he was at a loss to explain. The Mirkwood Prince gently released her hand. Jordan immediately felt the change in his mood. Trying not to let her see how his words affected him, Legolas kept his eyes forward as they walked.  
  
"You would return." He said flatly.  
  
"Legolas.this isn't my home; I don't belong here-wouldn't you want to go home if you were me?" Her words brought the Elf to a halt; turning his bright gaze down at her, in his eyes was an unfathomable expression.  
  
"Were I to have ample reason, I would choose to stay." The underlying meaning in his words was unmistakable.  
  
Did she have a reason to stay? She had another life waiting for her. If she could only get back to it, that is. Her life. Her job . . . Duncan. Unsure how to respond, Jordan looked down, studying her boots as if they held the answers to her dilemma. Looking up at the Elf, she chose her words carefully before speaking, her voice soft, filled with regret.  
  
"If I had a choice--"  
  
"Do you not? You say you wish to return, yet after your attempt, you still remain." his blue eyes held her in place. A brief look of confusion crossed her face before understanding dawned. Apparently he witnessed her attempts to find her way back; a smile quirked her lips.  
  
"Oh . . . you saw that. Yeah, well, I 'm still here-but for how long, Legolas? My being here is a temporary fluke; when I return, all of this may seem like nothing more than a dream." She said, indicating the forest with her arms spread wide.  
  
"You may not even remember me." Jordan said.  
  
Legolas watched her, his fair face unreadable. The Elf couldn't argue with the logic behind her statement. A creature of magic himself, he knew magic of unparalleled strength would have been the only way possible to bring her to Middle Earth. If she hadn't appeared the way she did, he might dismiss her as merely delusional; yet everything about her witnessed the truth that she was indeed not of this world. Legolas had no answer for her; instead, he walked away. Sadly, Jordan watched his retreating figure, convinced she would do them both a favor by keeping her distance.  
  
"You may be nothing more than a dream.a wonderful, impossible dream." She whispered in a dejected undertone to herself. Legolas paused in mid- stride.  
  
Looking over his shoulder, he cast her a sidelong glance, waiting for her. Jordan schooled her features into a neutral expression before she caught up with him; they walked in silence, not touching. Trying to lighten the mood, she plied him with questions about Mirkwood; Legolas offered nothing more beyond the answer to her questions. Feeling wretched, Jordan fell silent. After a while they emerged from the tree line, the glade before them, and beyond it, her quarters visible in the distance. With a sigh, Jordan turned to thank Legolas for his company, only to see he was gone.  
  
========  
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Confident Jordan could safely find her way back to her quarters from the glade, Legolas took to the trees, moving swiftly and silently as only Elf- kind are able. He struggled to understand and control the unfamiliar emotions roiling within him; it terrified and upset him to discover just how strongly he felt about her, and it scared Legolas even more to realize how desperately he wanted her to stay. 


	9. Across Time and Space

Disclaimer: Constructive criticism, suggestions and feedback are welcome. Flames will be cheerfully ignored. The idea of a telescoping Bo originated from Marvel comics, specifically Gambit's character, the blades at the end of the staff is borrowed from X-Men's fanfic goddess Valerie Jones. All recognizable characters belong to their respective, copyrighted Owners. Jordan Waters is mine. I have no money; please, don't sue.  
  
I Will Find You  
--Clannad  
TheLast of The Mohicans Original Motion Picture Soundtrack  
  
No matter where you go  
I will find you  
If it takes a long long time  
No matter where you go  
I will find you  
If it takes a thousand years  
In the place with no frontiers  
No matter where you go  
I will find you  
  
Across Time and Space  
  
Seacouver Washington  
  
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—arguably the most powerful Immortal alive—paced his apartment loft, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon wine in hand. Swirling the liquid, he raised the goblet to his nose and deeply inhaled the aroma wafting upwards. Enjoying the full-bodied bouquet, it unfortunately did little to ease his troubled mind. The Highlander's dark hair was mussed; a frown marred his ruggedly handsome face. Something was very wrong; he could feel it in his gut. Jordan was missing—vanished without a trace. Walking to his balcony, he stared unseeingly towards the woods as his thoughts returned to that day...  
  
: : : : _"Duncan, do we really have to do this? I mean, isn't it overrated? I feel like I'm in one of those cheesy kung-fu movies." His student whined.  
  
Jordan looked at him, her brow furrowed in a stubborn plea. The Teacher had been training his Student for the better part of the morning, with the emphasis on flexibility, or rather, her supposed lack of it. Locking Jordan's sticks into a bo staff, Duncan held it at waist level, and instructed her to do back-flips over it and down the length of the dojo, his eyes on the staff as he held it steady. Jordan was making faces at her Mentor, mimicking him as he spoke. When Duncan glanced at her, Jordan quickly schooled her features into an innocent, attentive expression. The Chieftain's Son looked at the younger Immortal sharply, aware she was mocking him, but unable to catch her in the act.  
  
"Jordie, just pretend you're a kid again—after all, how difficult are  
cartwheels and back flips? In a fight, you must use all your resources, especially if you lose your sword. You know that. When I fought Jacob Kell, he was prepared for everything. You, on the other hand, are a babe in the woods. Remember, you're alive as long as you've got your head on your shoulders. Now, come on. No more arguments."  
  
Ignoring her dramatic sigh, Duncan signaled for her to begin.  
Starting slowly, Jordan completed ten back flips in quick succession, bumping the bo three separate times.  
  
"How do you feel?" Duncan asked her.  
  
"Dizzy." Jordan replied; closing her eyes, she waited for the room to stop spinning.  
  
"Then you will continue until you're not." Duncan smiled at Jordan's scowl.  
  
Grudgingly, she nonetheless complied. With her second attempt, Jordan completed the flips quicker, hitting the bo only once. The demanding perfectionist he is, Duncan put his student through the rigors of back flipping until Jordan was able to perform the exercise flawlessly and vertigo free.  
  
"Now how do you feel?" the Highlander inquired.  
  
"Like kicking you." Jordan replied, half-serious.  
  
"Oh yeah?" arching a dark brow at the woman, Duncan's lips quirked into a sardonic smile.  
  
"Yeah." She said.  
  
"You'll get your chance. Now pay attention; your bo is an extension of yourself." the Highlander was businesslike once again.  
  
"Tell me something I don't already know." She replied saucily.  
  
"Think you know it all, eh?" Duncan studied the woman before him, his eyes narrowing.  
  
"I know enough." Jordan's voice faltered; her bravado was steadily wilting under the Highlander's suddenly menacing gaze.  
  
"Oh yeah?" Duncan challenged; circling his student, he began to slowly twirled the staff.  
  
"Yeah." Jordan tracked him, her muscles tensed as she readied herself for Duncan's attack.  
  
"Hush and learn before you get a sound beating." The Highlander said.  
  
"Bring it on!" came her pert reply.  
  
Spinning the bo, Duncan suddenly rushed Jordan, attempting to sweep her feet from under her. Jordan jumped up; planting her right foot in his chest, she used the Clansman as a springboard to launch into a back flip, and sailed over the spinning staff, safely out of reach.  
  
"Nice move." The Highlander allowed.  
  
Landing lightly, Jordan didn't get the chance to reply as she cart wheeled, avoiding the jab aimed at her side. She followed with a back flip as Duncan attempted to give her a concussion with the end of the staff. It missed Jordan by mere inches, for she could feel the breeze the bo generated as it whistled past.  
  
"Never underestimate your opponent." The Highlander cautioned before springing towards her once again, whirling the staff above his head and around his body.  
  
Aggressively stabbing and jabbing, Duncan forced Jordan back. Her seventh back flip brought her to the weapons hanging on the wall, on the floor beneath lay bos of varying lengths. Ducking as the Chieftain's Son swung at her head, Jordan snatched a staff from the floor; hands gripping the weapon shoulder width, she brought it up, blocking the Highlander's strike, then quickly down again, pinning his foot to the floor as he attempted to kick her in the jaw; using one end to pin Duncan's foot to the floor, Jordan raised the other end perpendicular to her Mentor's stick.  
  
"Your bo can be your best friend in a fight, especially if you can't get to your sword-- if you wish to keep your distance, or stay out of reach." Breathing naturally, the Highlander looked down at Jordan, continuing his lecture as if they were merely conversing-- not training.  
  
Jordan used her staff to block and counter his attacks while regaining her feet; Teacher and Student continued to spar. The dojo echoed with the whooshing and clacking sounds of their staffs. Bodies leaping and twisting, legs kicking, an hour passed, time slipping by unnoticed.  
  
"With little effort you can easily disarm your opponent..."  
  
Jordan's reaction was a fraction too slow in avoiding Duncan's stab to her right knee. It buckled, bringing her down; the Highlander swung his bo down, intent on dislocating her shoulder. Raising her staff, Jordan thwarted his move. Their bos were once again perpendicular to one other— with Jordan's bowing in the center as Duncan leaned heavily against it. Not bothering to hide the smug grin on his handsome face, the Highlander's teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin, and long dimples carved his cheeks as he spoke.  
  
"....and give her a sound beating. Got it?" The Clansman asked.  
  
At Jordan's humiliated nod, Duncan stepped back, leaning against his staff.  
  
"Good! Now to our Katanas."  
  
Reaching down, Jordan's Mentor extended a hand to help her up; for a second, Jordan seriously considered swatting it away before she gripped his hand and allowed the Highlander to pull her to her feet. Her pride wounded, Jordan snatched the staff her Teacher held out to her; chuckling softly, Duncan ignored the woman's baleful glare, but not before giving her a self-satisfied smile as he retrieved their swords. Blowing a raspberry at his retreating back, Jordan returned the borrowed staff, limping as she walked. Her knee smarted terribly.  
  
Unlocking her sticks, Jordan resisted the foolish urge to throw them at Duncan; instead, she wisely put them away, conscious to the fact she couldn't outrun the Highlander in her present condition. Resigned to her long day of conditioning, Jordan reluctantly made her way to the center of the dojo, catching her Katana as Duncan tossed it to her. Heaving a long- suffering sigh, at her Mentor's signal, Jordan again assumed a fighting stance.  
  
Swords held high, the Immortals rushed towards one another. Their Katanas sang and brilliant sparks flew as their blades scraped together. Feinting, thrusting and countering, they circled one another warily, looking for weak points. Lunging, Duncan's Katana enveloped his Student's; with a quick flick of his wrist, the Highlander effortlessly disarmed Jordan, sending her Katana skittering across the hardwood floor. With a quick glance, Jordan gauged the distance to her weapon as Duncan came at her.  
  
Completing two quick back flips, Jordan carefully timed her move; ducking under his passing blade, she stepped into his personal space—too close for him to do damage (unless he release his sword or head butt her). Jordan pinched Duncan's cheek as she stuck her tongue out at him, earning her a stern glare in return as she easily ducked below the Highlander's whirling blade.  
  
Jordan dropped into a defensive crouch and her leg extended as she attempted to sweep her Mentor's feet out from under him. Avoiding the maneuver, Duncan's front kick caught Jordan under the chin. As he taught her, to prevent her jaw from absorbing the brunt of his kick, Jordan followed the momentum of her head into a back flip; her foot caught the Highlander under his chin as well. Jordan was satisfied when she heard his teeth snap together as the Highlander staggered back, momentarily stunned.  
  
Before Duncan could recover, Jordan took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself. Her hands were a flurry as she delivered rapid punches to his abdomen; pivoting on her right leg, Jordan launched into a jumping round kick; the woman's left leg lashed out and caught the Highlander in the chest. As Jordan she spun in the air, her right leg connected with Duncan's chin. Landing on her feet, she followed with a hard left-right jab, before running to her katana. Snatching it up, the woman whirled, bracing the flat of her blade against her right palm as she blocked Duncan's attack. Using her body weight as leverage, with a grunt, Jordan used her katana to push him back as they circled each other, breathing hard.  
  
"You've made your point, Duncan." She said tightly.  
  
Jordan's jaw was aching from the impact of the Highlander's kick; despite their full-contact session, she had much to be thankful for -- she didn't bite her tongue off, nor were any teeth knocked loose (that she could tell).  
  
"Good. Remember it. We live violent lives, Jordie. Like it or not, as long as you've your head, you're in the Game." Duncan said.  
  
Jordan crowed inside as the Clansman worked his jaw; apparently her kick had some zing in it as well.  
  
"But what if I don't want to play the Game anymore?" Jordan asked.  
  
Duncan stood still, lowering his Katana as he thoughtfully considered her words.  
  
"There are two sure ways to remove yourself from the Game: the Sanctuary-- which was rebuilt, or lose your head. The first option has a terrible price to pay, the second . . . " The Highlander's words trailed off; a faraway look entered his eyes as he recalled the most recent definitive moment of his long life.  
  
For a brief second, Jordan glimpsed the raw pain on his face before he came back to himself; suspecting it was somehow related to the Immortal Kell, she didn't have a chance to ask as Duncan resumed his fighting stance. Automatically, Jordan mirrored him her Teacher – and it was a good thing, for the Highlander leaped at her cat-quick. Out of pure reflex, Jordan brought her Katana up. Once again sparks flew in all directions.  
  
"The second way is not an option, and we're going to make sure of that, right?" Duncan said, his voice low; holding her gaze over their crossed blades; the intensity in his eyes caught Jordan off guard.  
  
In an unexpected move, the Clansman grabbed his Student's sword arm and brought it down; Jordan's blade rested on Duncan's shoulder, his blade perpendicular to hers behind his head as he firmly gripped her arm.  
  
"A wise Highlander once said the Game is also about manipulation of the mind." Duncan murmured softly, almost to himself.  
  
Perplexed, Jordan looked at her Teacher. Indicating her advantage with a pointed glance, she said,  
  
"Well, unless you're planning on donating your Quickening, I'd say manipulation isn't necessary here."  
  
"Isn't it?" Duncan retorted.  
  
With a hard shove, he pushed her arm away; in order to keep her balance, her body followed. As Jordan came about, her blade was at the ready. However, she was thoroughly dismayed to find Duncan's katana resting against her neck. The razor-sharp edge bit eagerly into the delicate flesh—she was completely at his mercy. Jordan stood very still; the cold expression in the Highlander's dark eyes suddenly made her extremely nervous. Swallowing convulsively, tiny beads of perspiration appeared, dotting her upper lip.  
  
"If I chose, your Quickening would be mine right now. This move, properly executed, is unstoppable. Remember well, Jordan. Connor MacLeod taught me this move and I used it against Kell, but he was prepared for it. Are you?"_ : : : :  
  
That was yesterday---it seemed so long ago, yet it was a mere twenty-four hours since he last saw her. That same evening, they were to have dinner together and watch a movie afterwards. It was unlike Jordan to miss an appointment, especially after they confirmed plans following their morning workout; to sweeten the deal and soothe her bruised ego, he was buying.  
  
========  
  
========  
  
According to the statistics, the length a person was reported missing is inversely proportional to the chances of recovering the missing person Taking comfort in fact Jordie wasn't an ordinary person, nor was she unable to defend herself (their training sessions proof positive) the Highlander fervently hoped Jordan's weapons were with her, and not used against her—and more importantly, that Jordan paid attention to her surroundings. The mounting frustration and gnawing fear brought back the dark and mysterious time when Connor MacLeod vanished; Duncan only hoped Jordan's ending would not be as Connor's. The Highlander wracked his mind, searching for clues related to her disappearance, things he might've missed, with the same end result—nothing.  
  
Duncan's worried gaze came to rest on the nondescript tube of metal resting on his coffee table. Placing his wine on the balcony railing, he strode to the sofa; sitting down, he stared at it before picking it up. Gunmetal gray in color, it gleamed dully in the light. Made of titanium, it possessed steel's strength, but not the weight, had twice the strength of aluminum and the added benefit of a high resistance to corrosion. At his touch, it telescoped into a bo staff six feet long. Another trigger released the daggers ingeniously embedded at the ends—a deadly bonus, no doubt. Retracting the weapon into its compact form, he gently set it down before unfurling a bolt of black velvet. Nestled securely within lay a sheath housing half a dozen slender spikes.  
  
Duncan had gone through highly unconventional channels, pulling several strings to have the customized retractable bo and spikes made. Confident they would serve Jordan well should their paths part again, Duncan admired the craftsmanship and care that went into their making. They were unique and one of a kind—like Jordan. Inlaid with platinum, one set was embossed with cherry blossoms, another with Kanji characters for good fortune set against the black background. The third set was plain, coated with a shiny black lacquer. Jordan would appreciate the functional simplicity of these weapons.  
  
A faint smile crossed the Highlander's face. Knowing Jordan, she would probably make them do double duty as eating utensils, or hair adornments; the titanium spikes had been carefully tested for proper weight and balance, but never used. That honor was reserved for Jordan alone, and he was determined to personally place them in her hands. Duncan had gone about the remainder of his day anticipating the expression on her face when she received them; intending to present the gifts to her after dinner that evening, her disappearance changed everything.  
  
Now they served as silent reminders of his quest, another reason to press onward with his search; since her disappearance; standing abruptly, Duncan gave the weapons one last glace before he returned to the balcony and his glass of wine; standing by the railing, his gaze fixed onto the woods in the distance.  
  
"I **will** find you, Jordie." he swore.  
  
Cradling his wine goblet by the bowl, unconsciously, Duncan's fingers tightened around the lead crystal. Unable to withstand the pressure, the delicate glass shattered in his hand, cutting it deeply. Closing his fingers into a tight fist, the Clansman welcomed the pain. Finally, Duncan opened his fist, allowing the jagged crystal shards to land at his feet with a musical, tinkling sound. The Highlander watched dispassionately as the dark red liquid mingled with his blood. Within seconds, the sparks of his Quickening appeared, dancing along his palm, as almost instantaneously, the layers of lacerated flesh approximated; the epidermis melded together smoothly, seamlessly, healing at an unnatural rate. It was a handy and interesting benefit of Immortality. The more Quickenings an Immortal acquired, the faster their wounds healed. Minor cuts and wounds healed instantly, more serious injuries took longer; the length of time for revival after 'death' is proportionally related to the severity of the mortal wound received. Decapitation is the ultimate end game for Immortals. Brushing his hand against his slacks, Duncan walked to the kitchen to retrieve a rag, broom and dustpan. The Buzz and rapid knocks sounded at his front door; with swift strides, he crossed the room. Opening the door, he began without preamble.  
  
"Come in." Duncan disappeared into the kitchen again, his words floating back to his guest.  
  
"Well, so much for 'hi'. By the way, yes, I'm fine, and the flight was long, but France sends its love."  
  
"Hungry?" came the muffled response.  
  
"Nah, I ate on the plane. Remind me to pack a lunch for the return flight."  
  
Methos, the oldest living Immortal, entered the Highlander's apartment loft. Over 5,000 years old, he didn't look a day over thirty-five. With a sigh, the Ancient One dropped his carry-on bags by the door and stretched his long limbs before ambling to the couch. Lowering his tall, lanky frame onto the cushions, Methos rested his head against the sofa's back and wearily rubbed his face with his hands; he felt thoroughly jet-lagged.  
  
The Eldest looked up at the sound of footsteps, Duncan held out a tall, frosty bottle of brew in one hand. Accepting the proffered beer with a nod of thanks, Methos took a long swig.  
  
"You're spoiling me, MacLeod." The Ancient One quipped.  
  
"I have a good reason to." Duncan replied.  
  
"Ah . . . an ulterior motive. I should've known." Methos said wryly.  
  
Not liking the sound of that, Methos decided to change the subject. The Antediluvian studied the younger Immortal, who held a broom and dustpan; a rag dangled from the Highlander's pant pocket.  
  
"Spring cleaning?" he inquired.  
  
"Something like that; there's broken glass on the balcony." Duncan replied.  
  
"Should I ask?" Methos ventured.  
  
"Not particularly." Came the dry response.  
  
Methos smiled faintly, knowing better than to pursue the matter. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back again as Duncan swept up the broken glass; the Ancient One listened to the faint sounds of his friend and fellow Immortal as he cleaned the aforementioned mess, not bothering to open his eyes until Duncan's footsteps drew nearer, then stopped. With a sigh, Methos opened his eyes and blearily looked at the Highlander and waited for the younger Immortal to sit in the recliner across before speaking.  
  
_No rest for the weary. Might as well get it over with._ The Eldest thought to himself.  
  
"What is so important that we can't talk about it over the phone?" Methos asked.  
  
"Jordie's missing." Duncan said flatly.  
  
The Ancient One didn't speak, nor did he react as he absorbed the Highlander's words. Had the Clansman been less preoccupied with his cares, he would have seen how the elder Immortal's weary expression was gone, how the Ancient One's eyes now held a sharp light -- how Methos' patrician features were now arranged in a carefully neutral expression.  
  
"Jordie. Jordan Waters . . . your Student. Missing. Are you sure?" Methos drawled.  
  
Preoccupied with the situation at hand, Duncan missed the hesitation in Methos' smooth voice.  
  
"Of course I'm sure. She wouldn't disappear like that. Like you,  
she's not an active participant in the Game. In fact, she stopped  
taking Heads after her fifth one -- and that was thirty years ago."  
  
"And how exactly do I figure in all of this?" Methos asked as he looked at his friend calmly, already knowing the answer.  
  
"I came to you when Connor disappeared. I was right about it, eh? And I'm right about her." The Highlander tapped the recliner's arm for emphasis, the conviction in his voice absolute.  
  
"I needed the benefit of your experience then, and I need it now.  
Something's not right. I can feel it. We need to find her, Methos;  
she could be in danger." The Highlander replied; the urgency in  
Duncan's voice made Methos sigh.  
  
"First things first; since when did it become 'we'? And for that  
matter, have you ever thought that maybe she doesn't want to be found  
. . .? Sometimes an Immortal just needs to get away from it all for a  
while." Methos ventured.  
  
The Ancient One's words faded at the Highlander's dark scowl. Methos  
remembered a time when he had done just that vanished, taking great care to cover his tracks. Somehow, the Old Man suspected, Jordan's situation was . . . different. Young as she is, he didn't think she'd be that good at pulling a Houdini. She wasn't the dark, brooding type. That was both he and MacLeod's department.  
  
There were several occasions he wished Duncan hadn't found his conscience for him, and he was beginning to suspect tonight would be one such time. The oldest Immortal regarded the most powerful Immortal. Pursing his lips, Methos considered his options. Finally, the Ancient One decided that time would be good at this point.  
  
"I see; I hate to sound like a callous heel, but I am tired, Duncan.  
It was a rather long flight; the food was bad, and to make matters  
worse, I was sitting two rows from a toddler who didn't care for the  
flight--and he insisted the entire plane know of his plight. Yak  
butter is hell on your digestion, but toddlers are hell on your  
nerves. I think I'd rather have the yak butter. Correct that – I know  
I'd much rather have the yak butter. Can we please talk about this in  
the morning? I know you want to find Jordie as soon as possible, and  
I promise we'll figure something out. Things always look clearer in  
the morning."  
  
Reluctantly, the Highlander nodded. Methos stood, grasping Duncan's  
shoulder reassuringly.  
  
"If she's truly missing, we'll find her, Duncan." Methos said, looking  
Duncan in the eye.  
  
"Go to sleep, Methos. Same room. I'll see you in the morning."  
  
Duncan watched his guest—and best chance of finding Jordie—disappear  
down the hallway, before returning to the balcony. Looking up at the ink black sky, the distant stars overhead were barely visible, obscured by the bright lights of the city.  
  
"Where are you, Jordie?" He asked quietly.  
  
There was no answer, save for the sounds of traffic in the streets far below. Giving the woods one last look, he turned away, slowly making his way to his bedroom. Bare-chested and wearing only soft flannel pajama bottoms, Duncan lay in bed, muscled arms tucked behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep, his thoughts returned to Jordan, unsure how to find her, wondering where she is; all the while the moon climbed higher into the night sky, the curtains stirring in the soft breeze blowing from his open windows. At long last, the Highlander's eyes grew heavy with sleep. On his dresser, bathed in moonlight, lay the box once containing the Lothlórien leaf, its delicately carved runes glowing brightly.  
  
Note: wine glasses vary in size, shape and design; the glass shouldn't be too thick (so the glass doesn't obstruct your contact with the wine), and with a stem long enough so you can hold the glass without handling the bowl; towards the end, Duncan held his by the bowl, not the stem. In 'End Game', Duncan has 174 Quickenings (Qs) to his credit, gets Connor's 262Qs, and Kell's 661Qs. Jordan has 5Qs. You do the math. 


	10. Troubled Waters

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to JRRT, his estate/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. This is my first fanfic; please be civil in any review(s); flames will be cheerfully ignored as always.  
  
Rating: PG-13 *angst ahead-consider yourself warned.  
  
Ch. 10 Troubled Waters  
  
Alone in the House of Healing, Læurenthail rotated her stock of herbs and other medicines; as she worked, her thoughts centered on Jordan Waters. When not practicing her limited but growing command of the Elvish language, the woman could be found amongst the Apprentices, helping them complete their tasks, no matter how menial they may be.  
  
Watching the Healers hone and apply their skills, Jordan often compared Imladris' healing arts with those practiced in her land, describing them in vivid detail to the Head Healer. To the she-Elf, the woman's ways sounded unnatural; some practices were downright barbaric, if not steeped in devilry--especially the so-called ability to 'operate' on a person's brain while she or he is in a deep sleep. The she-Elf gave a delicate shudder while continuing her pleasant task, lips pursed as she mulled her thoughts over:  
  
: : The woman is confused. She longs for 'home', yet she embraces Imladris . . . There is also more between Jordan and Lord Legolas than mere acquaintance. It is no secret, the romance between them. Some Elves disagree with his choice of interest, others see no harm in it- it will be but a brief moment in our eternal lives. The Prince-much to the disappointment and chagrin of many of our she-Elves-has eyes for Jordan alone. How unlike Lord Legolas to openly show affection-he cannot keep his hands to himself! His actions are never unseemly, yet it is highly entertaining to see the handsome and elusive Prince of Mirkwood quite taken with a mortal woman-of all things. : : she thought, chuckling softly, smiling wryly to herself.  
  
As she became better acquainted with Jordan, Læurenthail's concern grew for both Jordan's and Lord Legolas' well being. Her smile slowly faded as she thought more on the matter.  
  
: : Arriving by unnatural means, when and if she returns 'home', someone will be left behind. What an ugly little puzzle . . . Lately, however, Jordan spends more time here than usual; as if she were . . . avoiding a certain fair Elf. As if that would solve her dilemma. : :  
  
Although she sympathized with the Mirkwood Prince, the Healer found the situation he was in highly entertaining. Surely his Lordship hadn't experienced such frustration with a maiden in an Age; and with a mortal, of all things!  
  
Legolas often came to the House with the plausible reason of requesting medicinal supplies for the pending hunt, his bright eyes casting about, searching for the woman. When Jordan was present, she and the Mirkwood Prince spoke in voices so low even the she-Elf had trouble hearing their words, though she did not actively eavesdrop on their conversations. As the Healer discretely observed the pair, Jordan stepped back from the golden Elf when he stood too near, or dropped what she held in her hands, stooping to pick it up as he raised a hand to touch her. Eventually his visits decreased before they stopped altogether. Hearing footsteps approach long before their owner appeared, Læurenthail turned towards the entrance.  
  
"Love's path is seldom easy." the she-Elf murmured. Scarcely had the Healer uttered the words when Jordan appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Good morn, little songbird." She smiled at the woman, her observant gaze taking in the faint circles under her eyes.  
  
"Yeah, right. Good morn, Læurenthail." Jordan gave her a wan smile. After greeting the she-Elf, Jordan wandered aimlessly about the room, absently touching the herbs laid out to dry on a rack.  
  
"What needs to be done?" the woman asked in a dull voice; her cheerful disposition was markedly subdued.  
  
The Healer studied her visitor, contemplating the task best suited for her. Deciding it behooved Jordan to keep busy, Læurenthail set her to work tearing linen into strips for bandages; the glum mood rested on the woman like a dreary mantle. Silently, Læurenthail returned to her task, sensing Jordan's inner turmoil.  
  
Surreptitiously glancing at her visitor, the she-Elf's sympathy stirred; Jordan-who was unusually quiet, paused in mid-task, occasionally shaking her head. Brows knitted, her eyes darted to and fro as if in silent debate with herself. Many times she gazed out the window, her green eyes unfocused; the confusion and regret radiated from the woman in waves. Læurenthail remained silent until the Jordan saw it fit to speak of what troubles her so; the Healer didn't have to wait long. Having no one else to confide in, Jordan cautiously decided to open up to her.  
  
"Læurenthail.have you ever wondered why certain things happen? I don't know how and why I was brought here, or how and when I'll go home . . . " Jordan's words trailed off, her eyes troubled as she fingered the leaf at her neck. Studying the woman before her, Læurenthail considered her response.  
  
"Does Rivendell make you unhappy?" the she-Elf asked.  
  
"No! I mean, no-on the contrary, I'm happy here. For all I know, it could probably be the happiest place on middle-earth. That's the scary part. The longer I'm here, the more I want to stay, but . . ." Jordan said; the woman before her looked thoroughly miserable.  
  
"I dare say Lord Legolas would have you stay." Læurenthail said mildly. Jordan looked up sharply at her words.  
  
"He's been very kind to me." She warily acknowledged.  
  
"'Kind'? Is that what you call it?" Læurenthail's perfectly shaped brow arched in amusement at Jordan's refusal to admit it was more than mere 'kindness' on Lord Legolas' part.  
  
"I'm not sure I know what his. . . feelings for me are. It will end, whether by my return home, or .some other way. Surely I'm just a passing fancy."  
  
*** The she-Elf is very observant; nothing gets by her unnoticed. *** Jordan noted.  
  
"Jordan. I will speak plainly. You are a fool if you cannot see Lord Legolas has feelings for you." Læurenthail's gentle smile took the sting out of her words.  
  
"I prefer the term 'unassuming'" Jordan replied dryly.  
  
"We have a saying back home that if you 'assume' things, you pretty much end up looking like a jackass." At Læurenthail's blank stare, Jordan gave an unladylike snort, rolling her eyes.  
  
"Forget it, Læurenthail, it's a 20th century thing." Sighing, Jordan returned to her task, giving the linen she held a particularly vicious tear, venting her frustration. Læurenthail tilted her head to one side, appraising the woman as she worked.  
  
"Do you know what it is like to be loved by an Elf?" Læurenthail asked. Not looking up from her task, Jordan replied.  
  
"Well, since I've never met an Elf till I came to middle-earth, no--I don't; I believe you're about to enlighten me." She said, making an attempt to keep the mood light. Nonplussed by Jordan's casual attitude the Healer replied,  
  
"It is forever. Timeless. Unchanging. Joinings between mortals and Elf- kind are not normally encouraged, because mortals are subject to the ravages of time, but when it does happen, most would not change it. " Jordan did a mental double take as Læurenthail's words sunk in. Setting the linen down, Jordan's expression was disbelieving as she stared at the she-Elf; her gaze turned suspicious.  
  
"Whoa-wait a minute. 'Love'?! Who said anything about 'love'? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're implying Lord Legolas is or could possibly love if not be in love with . . .me?" Jordan was unable to hold Læurenthail's unwavering gaze for long, breaking eye contact first.  
  
"Attraction I can understand, lust even. But 'love'? That's a pretty bold assumption don't you think? I don't know what his exact feelings for me are, and I'm not going to jump to any conclusions. I've made that mistake before, and I don't plan on repeating it. It's..it's, oh--!" Jordan made a sound of frustration, unable to convey in words exactly what she wanted to say.  
  
The conversation wasn't going as she'd hoped; in fact, it left her more confused as emotions she desperately wanted to deny were surfacing and rapidly gaining strength. Jordan didn't understand what exactly it was between her and the fair Elf; she knew in her soul it was right; but, as Murphy's Law stated, it must be too good to be true; therefore, it could not be. Still, Læurenthail's words had their desired effect, planting a tiny seed of truth in Jordan's heart, to flourish if she would accept what was blatantly obvious to the Healer.  
  
"Why is water wet and what holds the stars to their appointed course in the sky--does it matter?" Læurenthail asked.  
  
"'Does it matter?' Of course it matters! I'm not exactly a resident of middle-earth, you know-I don't know when my tourist visa here is going to expire, and to top it all off, I finally fall in l---" Jordan's words came to an abrupt halt as her lips clamped shut. Realizing she said more than intended, Jordan quieted. In stilting tones, Jordan spoke again.  
  
"I'm sorry, Læurenthail; I'm not quite myself lately." The Healer hid the smile on her face; much as the woman protested-perhaps too strongly, she had yet to answer her question. Læurenthail repeated her query.  
  
"Jordan, can you not simply accept what is?" the she-Elf's quiet words filled the airy room. The woman looked at Læurenthail, her mouth working, but no words were uttered. Head bowed, Jordan's face was hidden from view by her raven tresses. The silence stretched between them before the woman finally spoke.  
  
"I'm afraid to." Jordan said, her voice so faint the she-Elf felt more than heard her reply.  
  
Looking up at Læurenthail, Jordan's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The she-Elf's steady, empathetic gaze was almost Jordan's undoing-almost.  
  
*** What is wrong with me?! *** Jordan berated herself; unsure why she was so emotional, and more than a touch angry with herself for the sudden tears  
  
The Immortal pasted a bright but watery smile on her face, clearing her throat before changing the conversation to a more safer topic, thankful the Healer didn't pursue the matter further.  
  
"I went on a walk not too long ago, and I ran into Lord Legolas-actually, he found me . . ." Jordan shared with Læurenthail the tree incident, but left out the minor detail of the kiss they shared. The woman also told Læurenthail of the phrase Legolas taught her. According to him, he claimed it would come in handy the next time she was angry with him.  
  
"And what would that be?" The she-Elf queried. Jordan took a moment to go over the phrase in her mind, wanting to articulate it correctly. With a smile, she said,  
  
"A helta ar caita caimanna!" Jordan beamed at Læurenthail, pleased with herself. It was quite a feat, considering she learned it only recently. Læurenthail's eyes widened, her expression comically shocked.  
  
"Pretty good, eh?" Speechless, the Healer blinked several times before she found her voice.  
  
"Did Lord Legolas tell you what it meant?" Læurenthail asked, smiling. Jordan looked at her quizzically and shook her head 'no'.  
  
"I believe its Quenya in dialect. Loosely translated into Common, it means 'take off your clothes and lie down on the bed!'" Jordan paled before turning a bright shade of red. The she-Elf's soft laughter didn't ease Jordan's discomfiture. Desperately wanting to change the subject, she asked the meaning of another word Legolas had used.  
  
"What does 'Melamin' mean?" Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, the way Læurenthail's lips quirked raised Jordan's suspicions.  
  
"Should I even ask-do I want to know?" the woman asked dryly, bracing herself for the unexpected.  
  
"Do you want to know?" The she-Elf returned, eyeing the woman with a teasing smile.  
  
"It can't be any worse than what he just taught me. Okay, what does it mean?" Jordan said, her tone hesitant.  
  
"'My love'." Læurenthail replied.  
  
With a knowing smile on her lips, the Healer watched Jordan's reaction. Resigned to the possibility it could be another potentially embarrassing phrase, Jordan was caught off guard, cringing inwardly at Læurenthail's smug expression. Any further discussion was thankfully interrupted as Læurenthail's gaze fixed on something over Jordan's shoulder.  
  
Apprehensive, Jordan turned, dreading another visit from Legolas. For both their sakes, she had to keep up her façade of disinterest; uncertain how long she could maintain it, Jordan wanted to follow her unruly heart. The hurt expression in Legolas' blue eyes when she forced herself remain unresponsive to him or avoid his touch wounded her deeply as well as weakened her resolve. It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that she saw a servant had silently appeared in the doorway, bowing respectfully to the Healer before addressing the woman.  
  
"Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you, Lady Waters." Giving the still grinning Læurenthail a feeble smile, Jordan followed the servant, the Healer's tinkling laughter following her out the door.  
  
**Could it be? Is it possible for him to feel that way about me? It can't happen.** She told herself sternly.  
  
Jordan didn't have much time to think more about it as they arrived at their destination. Led to a private study, Lord Elrond stood before an open window, facing west, his back towards her. She glanced around the room, admiring the beautiful tapestries displayed on the walls; sconces held thick ivory pillars, the melted wax giving the place an antiquated feel. A large table stood off to the side; scattered on its gleaming surface were scrolls, some rolled up, and others open; several quills and a pot of ink lay nearby. Just like Rivendell, everything in the room was beautiful; the colors a continuation of nature just beyond the windows. Jordan stood, unsure of what to do; she glanced towards the servant who escorted her, only to find him gone.  
  
** These Elves are quieter than ghosts! ** Sighing silently to herself, she turned back to see Lord Elrond studying her.  
  
** Damn, what am I supposed to do? ** Jordan floundered for a moment before bobbing a quick curtsey.  
  
The Immortal gave the Ruler a tentative smile as he inclined his head, indicating she should sit with a graceful sweep of his right hand. Lord Elrond remained standing, his gaze solemn and searching as he watched Jordan select a seat suited for her petite size. At the feast, he noticed she had experienced several moments' discomfort when seated, for her feet often dangled in the air. The chairs suited for cultures of lesser statures were, unfortunately, unavailable, for they were all in use at that time. The woman settled herself in an elaborately carved chair, folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him with a neutral expression on her face.  
  
"Lady Waters. It is plain to see you are not from this land." Lord Elrond said. She couldn't help but smile at the understatement.  
  
"You could say that, my Lord. I prefer to think of myself as a displaced tourist." Jordan quipped, in an attempt to disguise her trepidation.  
  
There was something about the Lord of Rivendell that made her feel he could probe her innermost thoughts with a single glance; the uneasy feeling fluttered in her stomach like a caged butterfly, making Jordan want to bolt from the room, to put distance between her and the Elf.  
  
** Get a grip, Jordan-you can do this. All he wants to do is talk-not know your life story ** she thought to herself.  
  
"'Displaced tourist?'" he echoed.  
  
Jordan almost laughed at the regal Elf's confused expression. Reminding herself she was speaking with the Lord of this realm, Jordan quickly continued: "I'm from way far away, way out West, from what I can tell."  
  
** Gee, I should've asked to see a map of this place. Seacouver's on the west coast--I hope I picked the right direction ** Jordan thought.  
  
Falling back onto a childhood gesture, the Immortal crossed her fingers for good luck. The Elf frowned slightly, considering her words.  
  
"You come from beyond the Grey Havens?" The way Lord Elrond spoke made it seem more of a statement than a question. Jordan tried to cross her toes in her slippers for good measure.  
  
"Mmm..uh, yes-you could say that." She replied weakly. Deciding the Ruler of Imladris deserved the truth-at least what she could safely reveal, Jordan drew a steadying breath.  
  
"My Lord, you wouldn't happen to have a map of middle-earth, would you?" she asked.  
  
The Elf raised an eyebrow at that. His curiosity piqued, he walked, seeming to glide to the table she glanced at earlier. Removing a large scroll, he brought it to Jordan, handing it to her. Holding it carefully, she unfurled it; despite it's size, it was light easy to handle. Looking at the drawings on the map, she couldn't read the beautiful, calligraphic writing. Wishing she paid more attention to her geography classes, she studied it carefully.  
  
** If I didn't know any better, this middle earth could pass for some kind of ancient, primeval, pre-historic Europe or something. ** Jordan thought to herself.  
  
Deciding to stay with her original answer, she pointed to the western most regions, her finger resting on a blank part of the map.  
  
"I know this sounds crazy, but I'm not from this land, and I'm definitely not from this time." Jordan said, meeting the Elf's gaze. To her surprise, the Elven Lord simply smiled.  
  
"I gathered that much, Lady Waters. Sometimes the Valar are mysterious in their ways. What puzzles me is how you possess the leaf of Lórien." Jordan's calm reply and carefully schooled features gave no indication of her thoughts, yet Lord Elrond sensed her unease and conflicting emotions as plain as day. Touching the leaf at her neck, she answered slowly.  
  
"Well, my Lord, it all started as a gift. This was given to me by an acquaintance; a few days later, I was lost in a bright light. When I came to, Lord Legolas and Master Gimli found me in Trollshaw Forest with the Orcs. Then we traveled here. I don't understand how all this came about, or even why it did. I'm not even sure how to find my way back. What I do find, is that I am deeply in your debt for all you've done for me." Lord Elrond's arched eyebrows rose. There was no mistaking the ring of truth in her voice, nor the sincerity emanating from her.  
  
"Very well, Lady Waters. You are welcome to remain in Rivendell for the duration of your . . . stay. If you desire answers, Mithrandir is expected in Gondor at the turn of the season. If you wish to seek his counsel, surely Lord Legolas and Master Gimli would be willing to escort you there. I shall speak with them about the matter." Turning, he dismissed her. As she stood to leave, Jordan hesitated, gathering her courage.  
  
"Thank you, Lord Elrond; as I said, I am deeply indebted to you; I could never repay your hospitality, but I would like to try. Lord Legolas spoke of the Orcs and a hunting party. I ask that you let me go. I can help. I can fight--Lord Legolas and Master Gimli know it as well. Allow me to do this for Rivendell. Please." The Elf turned back to Jordan, a frown on his aristocratic face.  
  
"I do not expect my guest and a woman at that to fight Orcs. It would be folly." The Elven Lord's disapproval was plainly written on his face. Jordan silently bristled at the implication of incompetence.  
  
"It would be my privilege. Please, my Lord." Raising an eyebrow, he seemed to be weighing a decision, holding her gaze for what felt like a very long time.  
  
Jordan's chin lifted slightly; her expression deceptively calm as she stared back at the Elven ruler as he studied her, his face unreadable. Looking deep into her eyes, a sudden vision flashed in his mind. In it, he saw Jordan engaged in a duel against another combatant. The ease with which she used her unusual sword left no doubt her words were true; however, the level of skill she possessed remained to be seen. Just as suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared. Blinking, abruptly he answered.  
  
"Very well, Lady Waters. I do not agree with your decision, yet I will grant you this request-take heed, you are not bound by your words. You have a fortnight to consider your choice." Gravely, Jordan nodded, oddly touched that the Elven Lord would have a small measure of concern for her safety.  
  
"Thank you, my Lord." Sensing her audience with Lord Elrond had come to an end, Jordan stood and quietly left the room. Lord Elrond watched the woman leave, his brow creased in thought. Although he had serious reservations about Jordan's participation in the pending hunt, he was certain beyond all doubt she would not fall in battle, nor be counted among the injured.  
  
There was little in Imladris that the Ruler did not know of, especially if it concerned his odd guest. From her early morning strolls, to her night on the rooftop, even the kisses and soft touches between the woman and the Prince of Mirkwood-Lord Elrond was privy to it all. There were, however, several aspects about Jordan Waters that remained shrouded in mystery, that even with his tremendous gift of foresight, he could not decipher. Closing his eyes, a thoughtful frown tugged his lips downward as he thought back to Jordan's arrival in Imladris.  
  
::: "Lay her here." indicating the large bed in the center of the room, Læurenthail drew aside the diaphanous bed hangings as Lord Legolas gently placed his burden in the center, caressing the woman's dirty face before nodding to the Head Healer on his way out. Sitting in an impromptu council with other Eldars and advisors, Lord Elrond heard the two Walkers' account of the events en route to their arrival. After much discussion, decisions were made; he was curious to see his unexpected guest-this woman Jordan Waters. In the breezeway, Elrond Half-Elven passed a servant bearing away a bundle of dirty clothes; entering the guest quarters, the Head Healer greeted him.  
  
His sharp gaze swept the room; on a table lay weapons that were unlike any he had seen. Walking to the table, he lightly touched the polished sticks, noting with interest the silvered stars cunningly attached to a swathe of soft black leather. What caught his attention was her sword-highly unusual in design, its razor-sharp edge would make any Elven master smith proud; even more remarkable was what he sensed within the sword. It seemed to possess a life of it's own, not sentient, but a.presence of some kind resided in the blade itself.  
  
Walking to the side of the bed, he gazed down at the woman who lay before him in silent repose. Fair of feature for a daughter of Man, his gaze traveled down her neck, to where the Leaf of Lórien lay. Lightly touching it, disjointed images flashed thru his mind with a speed and force that sent his senses reeling. In the center of his mind's eye stood Jordan; she physically remained unchanged, yet the passing of time manifested itself in her surroundings and clothing-landscapes and vegetation sprang up and withered away as if Nature itself had gone mad-changing at speeds too quick for even his mind to follow. Structures rose and fell in a land where all things green and good ebbed away till nothing but small patches remained, hemmed in by stone.  
  
Futilely grasping at the fleeting images, they vanished, turning inward upon themselves; dancing around Jordan illuminated by brilliant forked tongues of lightning, were shadowy figures engaged in combat, swords flashing and sparks flying. Constant and overshadowing the alien imagery was the ruggedly handsome face of a Man.a Sword master of some manner. Awareness of the link between the Man and the woman before him teased the edges of Lord Elrond's mind; unable to ascertain its nature, he instinctively knew it was of great importance. Try as he might, he could not divine the reason or purpose to Jordan Water's presence in Imladris, other than she was needed-to whatever end remained cloaked and hidden from even him.  
  
Breaking contact with the Leaf, Lord Elrond swayed slightly, massaging his throbbing temples as he sought to clear his mind of the jumbled images and sensations. Immediately, the Head Healer was at his side. Raising a hand to stay her questions, Jordan's soft gasp seized their attention.  
  
"She stirs." Læurenthail said; her soft voice seemed to rouse the woman, who tried to sit up.  
  
The she-Elf went to the woman as the Ruler of Imladris composed himself; the Healer gently but firmly pushed Jordan back down onto the pillows. Drawing a shaky breath, Imladris' Lord pulled his stately robes closer around himself. :::  
  
Opening his eyes, his mood pensive, Lord Elrond gazed out the open windows. The grandeur of his realm soothed his senses, his mind chewed over the mysteries surrounding Jordan Waters . . . Sometimes even the wisest cannot know.  
  
Note: Thank you to everyone who's been kind enough to send a 'review'; sorry it took so long for this update. I've had some computer issues that I needed to deal with, and thank the Good Lord, have resolved. I know this chapter is a bit angsty, but please, bear with me; it should hopefully become interesting in the chapters to follow. There are several possibilities regarding the direction of this story, and I'm challenged as to which path to take, so I may not update 2xs/mo as I'd hoped (I'm striving for quality vs. quantity). Decisions, decisions! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 


	11. The Three Hunters

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to JRRT, his estate/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Civility re: any review(s) is greatly appreciated; flames will be cheerfully ignored as always.  
  
The Three Hunters  
  
Seacouver, Washington 72 Hours Later  
  
Dawn arrived to find the Highlander busy in his kitchen. Sleeping fitfully, he'd tossed and turned, until frustrated, Duncan rose to prepare breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee brewing filled the loft with its inviting aroma and floated down the hallway, tempting Methos out of his warm bed.  
  
With a groan, the Immortal turned his head, his eyes slitting open against the pale morning light; the digital numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table glowed a lurid red, announcing the unholy hour of six o'clock in the morning. Ignoring his belly's insistent growl and his body's craving for caffeine, Methos rolled onto his stomach and promptly fell back asleep.  
  
Sitting down to a bagel topped with broiled tomato, dill weed and mozzarella cheese, Duncan sipped his coffee and waited for his meal to cool. Spearing a sausage link, the Highlander placed it in his mouth; chewing automatically, he hardly tasted his food—instead, the Scot's mind was consumed with finding Jordan. There was a feeling of . . . dread—an urgency bordering on desperation that drove him on. The Immortal couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that time was of the essence, of which every passing minute was working against him. Duncan finished his meal in silence, all the while hoping Methos would wake soon; glancing hopefully down the dim hallway, not a sound could be heard.  
  
"Come on, Old Man—time's not exactly our friend," he mumbled to himself. Tired from his sleepless night, his Scottish brogue became more pronounced; taking a gulp of coffee, Duncan waited impatiently for the caffeine to kick in.  
  
Restless, the Highlander cleared his breakfast dishes, setting his kitchen back in order. Making a plate of food for his friend, Duncan placed it in the oven to keep warm and took his mug of coffee out to the balcony. Below, the streets were slowly coming alive with morning commuters on their way to work; shopkeepers hosed down and swept their front stoops preparing for the day's business. Brooding, Duncan stayed outside, oblivious to the passing of time. The sound of cutlery clattering in the kitchen brought the Immortal out of his reverie. Glancing at his watch, the Scot wasn't surprised to find it was almost 11 a.m.  
  
"About time, Methos." He muttered softly to himself.  
  
"Breakfast is in the oven!" Duncan called over his shoulder. Yawning, the older Immortal returned the bowl, flaked cereal and spoon to their original places.  
  
"Morning, MacLeod. Thanks for breakfast." Methos' words floated out to his friend. Draining his mug of the last dregs of cold coffee, the Highlander joined his friend in the kitchen.  
  
"More like 'afternoon', Methos." The Highlander snorted, annoyed. Noting the ease and familiarity with which his friend moved about, Duncan still wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing as he quoted his friend's words from many moons ago.  
  
"'Mi casa es su casa, eh'?" Duncan's grin didn't quite reach his eyes. The Ancient One grunted as he sat down to his meal.  
  
"Sleep well? Bed not too soft?" the Scot inquired nonchalantly, trying to keep the impatience he was feeling from his voice.  
  
"Well, enough, thanks. So, I take it you still haven't heard from the lady . . .?" Duncan shook his head 'no'; the muscles of his jaw were clenched tightly in his frustration.  
  
"You'll break your teeth if you keep doing that." Methos said mildly. The Highlander shot the elder Immortal a dirty look, which was ignored.  
  
"Dare I ask what the day holds, MacLeod?" Methos asked; slicing his sausage in half and placing it atop the tomato and mozzarella cheese, the elder Immortal took a large bite of the thick sandwich, closing his eyes as he savored the flavors bursting in his mouth. It beat cold cereal any morning. Duncan waited for him to swallow before answering.  
  
"Joe's coming at noon to see what he can do to help. In the meantime, I was hoping you'd tell me what you know." He replied.  
  
"What I know?" Methos echoed, bewildered. He took another bite of his sandwich and chased it down with a gulp of coffee.  
  
"What I know about what? I'm not psychic. Besides, shouldn't it be the other way around—you're the one who called me, remember? I'm just here to help—if I can, that is." The Ancient One said. Duncan merely smiled. The Highlander knew his Elder could be of help. The tricky part would be convincing him to help.  
  
"I'll fill you in after you finish breakfast; there are some things I need to take care of; I'll be in my office." Duncan said.  
  
* * Might as well prepare for the Inquisition. * * The Ancient One  
thought to himself. Shooting his friend an indecipherable look, Methos took another bite of his sandwich; he took his time eating, doing all he could to prolong the inevitable. Sliding off the kitchen stool, Methos stretched his lanky frame; the bagel had barely made a dent in his appetite, but he wasn't up to fixing another one.  
  
"Well, I'd better not wear out my welcome . . ." Methos muttered to himself. He cleared away his breakfast dishes and placed them in the dishwasher. Heading towards the shower, the Immortal nixed the idea of returning to bed for another snooze, knowing Duncan wanted to pick his brain as soon as possible about how to locate and recover Jordan.  
  
Stepping beneath the pulsating spray, Methos let the hot water massage away the stiffness in his muscles. Sleeping in a strange bed always made him sore in the morning, at least until he acclimated himself to his surroundings  
  
* You'd think I'd be used to this kind of thing. * he grumbled to himself. Lathering up, Methos absently scrubbed his skin as he thought about the day he first saw Jordan Waters . . .  
  
::: Paris, France  
Montparnasse Cemetery  
Spring 1998  
  
It was well over a year before the Immortal known as Methos, and Adam Pierson, mild mannered Watcher to others, finally surfaced. Over a year was spent coming to terms with the grief of Her loss; In time, the pain would fade, the rawness of grief ease, but never fully leave. He would live, and he would love as he had previously done in the centuries before . . .somehow. But Her loss was different, and it affected him in ways that continued to surprise him.  
  
Standing before the black marble headstone, Methos' head bowed low. Grief and anger vied for expression on the angular planes of his aristocratically handsome face. Hunkering down, the Immortal rocked back on his heels before the grave marker, his head cradled in his hands, bittersweet memories replayed in his mind's eye. One in particular stood out, as he remembered the way she looked when he gave her the tickets:  
  
"You spend what ever time you have left dying, or you spend it living - with me." He told her.  
  
The determination on her face as she decided to spend her remaining time truly living, to see the world with him was seared in his memory. Seemingly frozen in that position, it was a full half hour before Methos looked up, his hand slowly reached out to lovingly trace the carvings on the glossy granite surface.  
  
Alexa Bond  
Beloved  
  
"Alexa . . ." Methos murmured, his voice cracking.  
  
Fighting to maintain control of his emotions Methos steepled his index fingers together, then pressed them to his trembling lips. Regaining his composure, the Immortal took a steadying breath.  
  
"So close. I came so close to saving your life. We'll never know if Methuselah's stone would've worked. This damned Immortality can be such a burden; I'd have gladly traded places with you if I could. You'll live in my memory and my heart, my love. I'll never forget you." He whispered to the silent marker.  
  
Reaching inside his overcoat, Methos removed from an inner pocket a slender glass vial. Unscrewing the lid, he shook out a measure of its contents into his hand and poured some of the pale, golden sand atop the headstone, the rest he scattered over the lush green grass covering the grave. Brushing his hands together, Methos refastened the lid before placing the vial to the side of the headstone.  
  
"I brought Egypt to you, my love. " he whispered softly.  
  
There was no answer—not that he expected one. With a sigh, the  
Immortal pressed two fingers to his lips; kissing the tips before he touched the cold headstone. He would carry her memory in his heart; it would be the only way to keep her alive. One year. The one-year they had together was spent loving, learning and discovering the wonders of the world and all the while celebrating life itself. Up to the bitter end . . . Methos would count that year as one of the best in his long life. Rising fluidly to his feet, Methos took one last look at the engraved marker before he turned and silently walked away.  
  
Sauntering along the busy rue, Methos crossed the street to his  
favorite sidewalk café; his step faltered slightly when he felt the Buzz; careful to not attract undue attention to himself, the Immortal expertly blended into the crowd; his dark eyes swept the gathered mass of humanity before coming to rest on a slip of a girl. An Immortal. Over time, Methos learned to appreciate fashion, and in the fashion Mecca of the world, it was with a practiced eye that he studied the yet-unknown Immortal.  
  
Perched on her head at a jaunty angle was a straw hat to keep the cool spring sun off her face. Dressed in a short, tailored black skirt with opaque black tights, he followed the shapely legs down to her funky, chunky shoes; around the graceful column of her neck hung a 35mm camera, branding her as a tourist. A fitted white shirt knotted fashionably at her waist completed the ensemble. Simple, hip yet classily sexy; the outfit flattered her figure nicely; apparently a lot of men and occasionally some women thought so as well, judging by the openly admiring glances thrown her way.  
  
Appreciating the view so far, his gaze traveled upwards, to see if the rest of her matched up nicely. Her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses; holding a map of the city in her hands, it fluttered in the spring breeze, threatening to take flight. Her head swiveled back and forth, as she searched for the source of the Buzz.  
  
**She's new to this; hasn't learned the art of subtlety. Either her Teacher's methods are lacking, or she needs one---or both. ** Methos thought. Despite himself, Methos smiled.  
  
A sudden gust of wind blew her hat off her head, to reveal shiny black hair bound in all things—a French braid, the long queue of it trailed down her back. Hesitating, she abandoned her search for the source of the Buzz, and chased her hat as it rolled down the sidewalk like a child's hoop, propelled by the wind, before an elderly gentleman kindly stopped the runaway hat. Straightening laboriously, he gave it to her with a nod and a smile.  
  
** The little fool needs to get her priorities straight! Choosing a hat over a potential threat. She definitely has a lot to learn. ** Methos thought to himself cynically.  
  
Accepting it with a grateful smile of her own, the female Immortal jumped in surprise when a bold young man pinched her on her derriere in admiration as he passed by. Indignant, she jammed the errant hat back onto her head, looking in vain for her amorous assailant. : :  
  
#  
  
Turning the shower knob to cold, the Methos gasped with the sudden change, his skin tingling, tightening in reaction to the icy deluge.  
  
** Never as good as a Quickening, but it'll do ** he thought to himself.  
  
Rinsing off, the Immortal toweled himself dry before stepping out of the tub, wrapping the thick, soft cotton cloth around his narrow hips. Walking to the sink, he noted with surprise the mirror hadn't fogged up, despite the steam surrounding him. Leaning on his hands, he stared at his reflection. Dark brown hair slicked back, his nose was a bit on the large side, but Alexa once told him it 'added character' to his face. To his recollection, it was never a hindrance, and she certainly never complained about it when they were locked in a passionate kiss or embrace. The bittersweet memory brought a sad smile to his face. Intelligent dark eyes stared back at him--eyes thru which the wisdom and experience gleaned during his centuries of existence shone, or were masked at will.  
  
Methos was a master at doling out his experience and wisdom to those he chose . . .as it suited his purpose. Tall, lanky and slighter in build than the big Scot, but no less capable, his wide shoulders could carry a custom- tailed tuxedo as easily as a shirt of chain mail, or a college sweatshirt, and he was just as comfortable wielding a sword or a pen. That was a definite plus of Immortality; other than keeping his sword skills up to par, Methos didn't need to worry about working out, unless it directly involved keeping his head on his shoulders. Not an ounce of fat was on his lean frame —good thing, too, especially with his love of beer. Shrugging to himself, the Ancient One smoothed shaving cream over his face and picked up his razor.  
  
=======   
  
====   
  
Powering down his desktop computer, Duncan looked up at the sound of footsteps, the Highlander noted the older Immortal was dressed for comfort in navy sweat pants, sneakers and a light gray sweat shirt, looking like an overgrown college kid. Sprawled out the sofa in the younger Immortal's office, Methos looked around with interest, appreciating the Highlander's eclectic taste.  
  
Several objécts d'art were scattered about, some of which were used as paperweights. Following his friend's gaze, Duncan's thoughts were similar. There were definite advantages to being independently wealthy. Collecting souvenirs and artifacts from his wanderings and many adventures over the centuries and recycling the antiques enabled him to command top dollar—and then some—for a very lucrative hobby; his wise investments over the years as well afforded him the luxury of being his own boss; it was wonderful, especially when personal business called him away.  
  
"How did you manage to get the mirrors to not fog up, MacLeod?" he asked, curious.  
  
"Nice, huh? Shaving cream. You rub it into the mirror, and it acts as a barrier. Condensation doesn't have a chance." The younger Immortal answered with an easy grin. Just as easily as it came, it disappeared. With a sigh, Methos looked at Duncan.  
  
"So, where do we begin?" About to speak, Duncan was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.  
  
"Expecting someone, Highlander?" Methos asked.  
  
"Joe. Weren't you paying attention—or are you going senile?" Duncan answered, rising from his chair.  
  
"Yuk it up, Highlander." Methos said wryly as he rose and followed him out of the office.  
  
"I just got up—not exactly at my best. I'm awake now." Methos replied, a touch defensively.  
  
"Sure. Right. Uh-huh." The younger Immortal said insolently. The Highlander answered the door, giving his friend and Watcher an affectionate clap on the back.  
  
"Let me give you a hand with that, Joe." Duncan said, reaching for the silver case.  
  
"Thanks, Mac. Any word?" the Watcher asked, his voice full of hope. The Highlander shook his head, his expression bleak.  
  
Lounging in the kitchen doorway, Methos observed his friends and Watcher colleague. Joe was a little older, his step not as quick, but other than that, still the same, still exuding brash vitality.  
  
"Bonjour, mon ami." He said quietly, a grin on his face as he moved forward to greet the Watcher.  
  
Looking around at the sound of the familiar voice Joe's bearded face split into a wide grin when he spied the older Immortal. Duncan smiled as he placed Joe's case on the coffee table, before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving the two to catch up with one another. Picking up the phone in the kitchen, he placed a call.  
  
"Hot damn—look what the cat drug in! Hey Old Man, how long you been here?" the Watcher exclaimed in delight.  
  
"I arrived last night. Caught the afternoon flight over." Walking over to the mortal, Methos and Joe clasped hands before pulling each other into a gruff bear hug.  
  
"What, you didn't take the jet?!" Joe asked disbelievingly.  
  
"Adam can't afford the jet." Methos said calmly, enjoying their game.  
  
"That's too bad. Oh well! Let me take a look at you, Old Man—yep, you're still the same!" Chuckling at his bad joke, Joe made his way over to the sofa, easing himself down on the comfortable cushions.  
  
"And you're still as ugly as ever." Methos rejoined easily, taking a seat in the recliner.  
  
"That's not what the ladies say!" Joe shot back good-naturedly. Duncan reappeared with an ice-filled bucket of beer in hand.  
  
"Aha!" With a triumphant grin, Methos retrieved a long neck, using his bare hands to pop the cap off his bottle of beer. The elder Immortal took a swig, relishing the way it slid smoothly down his throat. Walking over to Duncan's sound system, Methos rifled through his music collection. Selecting a compact disc, he placed it into the tray and pushed play. The sound of Queen's 'We Are the Champions' filled the air. Duncan and Joe exchanged exasperated glances as the Highlander shrugged apologetically. With a sigh, Joe rolled his eyes, his delight unaffected.  
  
"Glad you're here, Old Man; let's see what we got. Our friend here is chomping at the bit, eh? Can't say I blame him." Joe said, reaching for the case. Entering the combination that would unlock the case, the lid sprang open, revealing a high tech notebook nestled within. At a touch, the computer quickly booted up, the password screen appeared.  
  
"Where's your case, Old Man?" Joe asked Methos.  
  
"I left it at home. Didn't think I needed it." He answered. "Besides, I had to give you something to do, right?" he teased the Watcher. Before they could continue, the doorbell rang again.  
  
"Who else you expecting, Mac?" Joe asked, as his hand lowered the case lid.  
  
"Not who, but what—lunch", Duncan replied as he pulled the door open.  
  
The Scot reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills, accepting the pizzas from the delivery girl after paying for the pies. Placing them on the other end of the coffee table, he nodded his thanks to Methos as the older Immortal went to retrieve plates.  
  
"What kind didja get, Mac?" Joe asked, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma. Methos returned, passing around the plates and napkins before sitting down.  
  
"Ah, MacLeod, the bagel was merely an appetizer; sustenance arrives in it's purest form." The elder Immortal said, his appetite returning full force. The Watcher gave Methos a look of mock disgust.  
  
"Puh-leeze! Just eat—you're going to make me lose my appetite." Joe complained, reaching for a box. Duncan smiled, amused. It was good to have his friends near; it made him feel less alone in his search for Jordan.  
  
"Pepperoni, Hawaiian surprise and a combination. Put the notebook away, Joe; let's eat first." Duncan said.  
  
"Hey, you don't have to tell me twice!" Joe replied, smiling.  
  
The three men sat around eating pizza and knocking back suds, the conversation lighthearted as the bonds of friendship were renewed. Soon the pizza disappeared and the beer dwindled; shortly thereafter, they began to clear the coffee table. The easy, carefree mood changed, becoming grave as the trio tackled the business at hand.  
  
Opening the notebook, Joe accessed the database. The Watcher logo flashed on the monitor. Typing in Jordan's name, he clicked on 'Find'. The search engine instantly displayed the results, as a smaller window on the right side of the screen opened with current, revolving three-dimensional images of their lost friend:  
  
Query Results:  
  
Name: Jordan Milagros Waters  
Gender: Female  
Date Born: June 19, 1924  
Place Born: Manila, Philippines  
Parents: Felisa Hsiao Waters  
Garret Trent Waters  
Height: 5' 4"  
Weight: 125 Lbs.  
Hair: Black  
Eyes: Green  
First Death: July 3, 1945  
Recent Death: May 2003; assaulted outside Seacouver Medical Hospital, mortally stabbed.  
Body retrieved by Duncan MacLeod, revived in his loft.  
Weapon: Phoenix Head Katana given by Duncan MacLeod  
Quickenings: 5 Total  
1973 Xiu Zhien China  
1955 Thuy Nyguyen Thailand  
1950 Maki Ami Japan  
1949 Tedtaotao Saifun Guam  
1948 Herrflung Ruther Japan  
  
After reading the displayed results, Duncan let out a low whistle. "You guys are pretty thorough." he commented appreciatively. It never failed to amaze him that Watchers managed to follow Immortals thru the centuries. 'Stalked' seemed a better word. It was a bit creepy, he thought.  
  
"Well, we wouldn't be doing our jobs if we weren't, right Old Man?" Joe replied, peering at Methos over the screen. The elder Immortal merely smiled, his hand idly rubbing the Watcher tattoo on the inside of his left wrist.  
  
"That's pretty good, but tell me something I don't know; is that all you have on her?" Duncan asked, a frown creasing his brow.  
  
"These are the quick and dirty facts; other details can be accessed if you want." The Watcher said, waiting for Duncan's decision.  
  
"Like what?" the Highlander prompted.  
  
"The usual: occupations, likes/dislikes, favorites, lovers, you name it, we'll surely have something on it." Glancing at Methos, Joe noticed he had an odd expression on his face; in fact, he almost looked uncomfortable.  
  
"You okay, Old Man?" he asked.  
  
"I'm fine—and stop with the 'Old Man', would you?" Methos replied, a touch crossly. Raising an eyebrow, Joe couldn't resist the opportunity to needle his friend.  
  
"Whoa—somebody feeling their age?" the Watcher teased. Eager to get his companions to refocus, Duncan spoke.  
  
"What about a last entry or something like that?" the Highlander asked, increasingly glad by the minute that he Joe was there.  
  
"Well, we can always check her Chronicles. Let's see what it comes up with." The Watcher said with a quick grin. After clicking on the 'more' button, a new window popped up to display the results.  
  
Watcher: Bailey McDermott 1991- present  
Vanessa Lansherre 1985-1991  
Thuy Khomm 1948-1985  
  
"Lets see what 'Micky D' has to say about the lady, eh Mac?" Joe said, his fingers busy on the keyboard; moving to sit next to his friend, the Highlander grunted his assent, his eyes glued to the screen. Methos also moved closer and sat perched on the arm of the recliner.  
  
"Here's the entry dated 72 hours ago . . . that's when you last saw Jordie, right Mac? Several entries for that day; last one at ten that evening." Joe said, his eyes briefly flicking over to the Highlander.  
  
"Yeah." The Immortal replied. Joe read the words on the screen aloud.  
  
'Jordan exited MacLeod's loft wearing her usual attire, trench coat on. From the looks of her, I'd guess she and Duncan finished practicing. After taking her hair out of it's braid, she went into the convenience store where she apparently purchased sweets, one of which she eats. Its fortunate Immortals aren't prone to the usual banes suffered by mortals. The way she goes thru candy would make any dentist rich. Her most common purchases are Reese's peanut butter cups and Hershey Special Darks.  
  
From my vantage point, I see her on the sidewalk. Odd, there's no one else on the street; it was empty; suddenly, I felt strange, I couldn't move, though I want to move closer to the window, I couldn't. My body felt so heavy. Thru my binoculars I saw her hair blow into her eyes as she looks around; seconds later, she was engulfed by a brilliant flash of light; when I am able to see again, she is gone. I've not seen her move that quickly ever, and am cursing myself. I scanned both directions with the zoom lens, but couldn't find her. To my knowledge, there are no other places she frequents in the area, other than MacLeod's loft and the convenience store. I waited until the evening and still didn't see her.  
  
Later that same evening, MacLeod is alone in his loft. Still no sign of Jordan.'"  
  
"What about the next day's entry?" Duncan asked, his tone eager; this was a start. Intuition told him there was something there that could possibly help them. Joe continued to type away; the information appeared on the screen. Scanning the short entry, the three males remained silent.  
  
"Same thing, Mac. Nothing. Micky D still didn't lay eyes on the girl. Poor guy. Looks like you're not the only one tearing their hair out about this. Her Watcher isn't looking forward to logging how he lost his assignment. Can't say I blame the guy, either. Doesn't look good on your résumé."  
  
"Well, we can rule out kidnapping—that's obviously a relief. Perhaps that flash of light might be something to consider." Methos commented, studying the Highlander's reaction. His friend remained silent, a sign that he was deep in thought.  
  
"Unless it was a trick of light; sunlight bouncing off a car's windshield, reflecting on the window behind her—you know, that kind of thing." Joe speculated, scratching his beard thoughtfully.  
  
"What're the odds that Jordie knows her Watcher, Joe?" Duncan asked. Frowning, Joe shook his head.  
  
"Highly unlikely; you and I are the exception, Mac. As well as the Old Man here. Our policy of not interfering hasn't changed. Did you ever tell her about the Watchers?" Duncan shook his head in denial.  
  
"Not at all?" Joe pressed.  
  
"No, Joe. Not a word, not a hint, nothing." The Highlander reassured him. The Watcher shrugged, satisfied, not doubting his friend's word. Duncan stood, pacing the apartment; the information provided a clue, yet he was unsure how to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  
  
"Is there anything else you can think of, Mac?"  
  
"Dammit, don't you think I've asked myself that a thousand times?" Duncan growled. Joe and Methos exchanged glances.  
  
"I'm sorry . . . that was wrong of me; I shouldn't take my frustration out on you guys." Duncan said quietly, his dark eyes apologetic. He turned his eyes out towards the balcony, noting the position of the sun.  
  
"Put the computer away, Joe. I'm going to fire up the grill." Putting action to word, the Highlander made his way to the kitchen, the sound of dishes clattering and drawers opening and closing filled the silence as Duncan moved around in his kitchen.  
  
"What do you think, Joe?" Methos asked, wondering what the Watcher thought about the matter.  
  
"Well, I'd say either Jordie went thru a hell of a lot of trouble to disappear, or we have a bona fide mystery on our hands. She trained with Mac, so I know she's at least halfway competent. Question is, why is she gone? What do you think, Methos, what's your spin on the matter?" the Watcher replied, stymied.  
  
"I can't say. It really is a mystery to me as well." The Immortal said quietly, reaching for the TV's remote control. Channel surfing, Methos finally switched the television off in disgust.  
  
"Technology has come a long way, yet there's nothing on to watch." He complained to the Watcher.  
  
"Quit your bellyaching and take a look at this." Joe said, motioning for the Immortal to join him. Keeping his voice down, he nodded towards the screen. As Methos read the screen, something flickered in his eyes briefly before disappearing.  
  
"Does Mac know?" Joe asked quietly.  
  
"What? That I'm actually more than merely acquainted with the lovely Jordan Waters?" the Immortal replied; Methos looked at the Watcher, silent. With a glare, Joe turned back to the screen, reading the rest of the entry.  
  
"It was a long time ago. 1998 to be exact." Methos began. Joe stopped what he was doing, waiting for him to continue.  
  
"She was in France, and so was I; we . . . spent some time together. That's all." Methos said quietly.  
  
"Were you two involved?" Joe asked, not really expecting him to answer. Methos was saved from replying as Duncan came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.  
  
"Did you find anything else out?" the Highlander asked Joe.  
  
"I'm afraid not, MacLeod." Methos said smoothly; turning his back to Duncan, the Eldest shot the Watcher a warning glance. Shutting the screen down, Joe smiled at his friend.  
  
"Sorry, Mac . . .nothing else." The Watcher said apologetically.  
  
With a sigh, the Highlander nodded, looking at the computer screen where the original query results were displayed. Joe shot Methos another glare; the elder Immortal's expression was one of pure innocence.  
  
"Well, is anyone else hungry around here? I'm going to grill in about an hour." Duncan said.  
  
The two other men readily agreed to be hungry. The Scot went out to the balcony to prepare the grill before disappearing into his kitchen again. Joe returned to his computer; with a sigh, Methos walked out to the balcony. Joe's question stirred memories that Methos had locked away, preferring to keep them in the furthest recesses of recall. Leaning on the rail, the Ancient thought about Jordan, trying unsuccessfully to quell the rising regret.  
  
=====   
  
====   
  
"This a peace offering for losing it earlier, Mac?" Joe teased.  
  
True to his word, the Highlander grilled steaks and vegetables, serving both with a delectable rice pilaf that surprised even himself.  
  
"Something like that." Duncan replied, a sheepish expression on his rugged face. Picking up his glass of red wine, the Highlander swirled it around, inhaling briefly before taking a sip. The trio watched the sun set over the western sky in companionable silence.  
  
Feeling charitable, Methos began to gather the dishes; Joe stood to help when the older Immortal waved him down.  
  
"Sit—you did the research, I've got this. I'll work for food, and will gladly sing for beer." Methos said.  
  
"That won't be necessary, Old Man; I want my dinner to stay right where it is—in my stomach!" Joe said.  
  
With a wry grin, Methos began to scrape leftovers into a bowl for the garbage disposal to deal with. Stacking their dirty plates, he quickly had the table cleared. Feeling industrious, Methos set to loading the dishwasher and the coffee maker to brew.  
  
"Look at the Old Man—you'd think he'd been domesticated!" Joe commented.  
  
Duncan smiled automatically, his mind still on the information Joe provided. Making an effort to be a more hospitable host, Duncan asked Joe about the business at the club before falling into silence; in the gathering darkness, the moon and stars shone softly in the night sky.  
  
Feeling something poke his chest, Duncan reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out the box Gregory gave Jordan. Frowning, he tried to remember how it got there; the last time the Highland saw it, it was on top of his dresser.  
  
** Now you're losing it, MacLeod; can't even remember what you're doing anymore, can you? ** he thought to himself.  
  
"Nice night; think we'll get a crescent moon tonight, Mac?" Joe asked, staring at the night sky. When there was no reply, the Watcher repeated himself.  
  
"Mac?" Glancing over at his friend, Joe noticed he was absorbed with the object he held in his hand.  
  
"Whatcha got there, Mac?" he asked, curious.  
  
"This is the box of a pendent Gregory gave to Jordan." Duncan answered absentmindedly. Searching his memory, Joe tried to place the face with a name; after a moment, it came to him.  
  
"Gregory . . .he's your antique dealer friend, right? The one you introduced me to that morning?" Joe asked.  
  
"Yeah." Duncan replied, not taking his eyes off the box.  
  
"Can I see it?" Joe asked.  
  
Wordlessly, Duncan handed it to the Watcher before turning to the woods. It was becoming automatic; since Jordan's disappearance, more often than not, the Scot would inevitably find himself staring out at the woods every night.  
  
"Hmmm....never seen anything like it. What are the carvings on it?" Joe ran his fingertips gently over the surface of the box, admiring it.  
  
"I don't know. I think they're mainly decorative." Duncan answered over his shoulder, his gaze turning back to the dark woods in the distance. He couldn't shake the feeling in his gut that he was close—very close to finding the answers he sought.  
  
"Nice. What was inside again?" the Watcher asked, intrigued by the size and design of the box. It couldn't have held much.  
  
"A pendant. A green leaf with a silver thread entwined around it. You should've seen it—she loved it. Jordie'd never been one for baubles. This one really brought her eyes out." Duncan's face softened with the pleasant memory. Overhead the stars shone a little brighter, as if in response to the Immortal's mood.  
  
"Well, I'll be damned. Hey, Mac—check it out! You know it could do this?" Duncan turned at the wonder in Joe's voice. Holding the delicate item in the palm of his calloused hand, Joe held it out for Duncan to see; the runes glowed silver in the starlight.  
  
"No, I didn't." he said softly. The Highlander continued to stare at the box; the feeling that he was one step closer to finding Jordan grew stronger.  
  
"Wonder how it does that?" The Watcher said, thinking out loud.  
  
"Methos! Come out here and turn the lights off." Duncan called. Complying with the Highlander's request, Methos joined him, a bottle of beer in hand.  
  
"Why Duncan, this is all so sudden—after all this time, I had no idea . . .and in front of Joe, or is he going to join us?" Methos said sarcastically, chuckling at the Watcher's horrified expression.  
  
"Very funny. Notice I'm not laughing." Duncan glared at his friend.  
  
"Don't worry, Joe—the women of the world need me too much for me to consider finding solace in the arms of a man—especially that one!" The older Immortal reassured him.  
  
Joe simply nodded, a doubtful expression on his face as he passed the box to him. Duncan watched silently as Methos examined it; turning it over in his hands, the older Immortal's fingers traced the gleaming silver runes, his expression thoughtful. Looking up at Duncan, Methos' face was inscrutable.  
  
"Pretty little thing, isn't it?" Methos commented.  
  
"Have you seen it before?" The Highlander asked.  
  
"I've seen a lot of things over the centuries, Duncan." The Older Immortal answered, his voice carefully neutral.  
  
"What do you know about it, Methos?" Duncan pressed his friend.  
  
"This box? Can't place it. Sorry." Methos answered. The Highlander continued to press his friend for an answer, sensing there was more to the older Immortal's claims than he let on.  
  
"Wait a minute—you're telling me you know nothing about this box? C'mon, Methos, level with me. Surely you know something, or someone who can help."  
  
"Duncan, haven't we had this conversation before? I didn't become over 5,0000 years old by worrying about anyone else but me. If you care too much about someone, eventually you get burned."  
  
"This isn't just anyone, Methos—it's Jordan we're talking about!" The Highlander snapped.  
  
With a frustrated look directed at his friend, Duncan turned away. The muscles in his jaw were visibly clenched as he walked towards the railing. The Highlander needed to calm himself before he punched his friend from sheer frustration. Unruffled, Methos took swig of his beer, and observed the Clansman, his outward calm not betraying the thoughts in his mind. Rubbing his forehead, he closed his eyes. The Scot turned back to the elder Immortal.  
  
"Is that all?" Duncan asked, incredulous.  
  
"What do you want me to say, MacLeod?" The older Immortal asked.  
  
"I don't know—anything but that. You're telling me in over 5,000 you've never seen anything like this?!" Methos turned the box over in his hand, examining it again closely. After a moment, he handed it back to Duncan, ignoring the younger Immortal's comment. Tucking the box into his shirt pocket, the Highlander stared at Methos expectantly. Joe looked between the Immortals wondering what the answer would be.  
  
"Do you believe in legend, Duncan?" the Highlander didn't reply. Leaning back against the rails, Duncan waited for him to continue.  
  
"What does this have to do with Jordie?" Duncan asked, wondering where the conversation was going. "Maybe everything...maybe nothing." Methos said. With a pointed look at the beer in the older Immortal's hand, Duncan continued to badger him.  
  
"That's four beers you've had. Now pay up. Stop speaking in riddles. Either you know something or you don't. Which is it?"  
  
"Our origins are shrouded in mystery, lost in the fog of time. We are living legends, and if we exist, think of the possibilities, MacLeod. Really think about it." Methos said. Joe listened the Immortals' exchange thoughtfully.  
  
"You of all people should be open to that possibility. After all, you have the Sorcerer Nakano in you, and how many times has Connor been out of this dimension with Ramirez?" Methos asked, finding the bewildered, doubtful expression on the Highlander's face highly amusing.  
  
"The Old Man may be on to something; y'know, Mac—maybe you ought a ask Gregory about the box. Maybe he'll be able to give you some answers, or at least point you in the right direction." The Watcher reasoned. Looking at his wristwatch, he was surprised to find it was later than he thought.  
  
"Gotta go, Mac—It's my night to close the bar. Call me if you need more information; in the meantime, I'll nose around—see what I can find. 'Night, Methos." Methos waved good night as Joe made his way to the door with Duncan in tow.  
  
"I'll walk you to your car, Joe. Methos—I'm going down, if I don't see you when I come back up, good night. Don't sleep too well, you're not off the hook" Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, the older Immortal nodded. Watching them exit, the Immortal waited for the door to shut before slowly making his way back to his room, deep in thought.  
  
========  
  
========  
  
In his room, Methos' mind worked overtime. When Duncan handed him the box, he could scarcely contain his excitement. Though he was the oldest living Immortal, there were things in the world that were far older than him. He'd heard more than his share of legends; ironic since he himself was one. After he rode with the Horsemen, Methos' travels brought him to England, where, for a short time, he lent his sword arm to King Arthur. A smile crossed his good-looking face. The year of the Lord 410 A.D. was a good one, albeit filled with some rather . . . 'interesting' learning experiences. Laying in the bed, Methos stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Jordan, wondering if Duncan was aware of their . . . 'acquaintance'. Obviously not, for Methos could only imagine the Highlander's reaction – if he knew. A faint smile appeared on his lips  
  
"Jordan . . ." Methos said softly to himself.  
  
The mere mention of her name brought feelings that were a mixture of regret, along with a faint feeling of anticipation. The Immortal remembered her lingering scent of sandalwood and strawberries, and the way she fit neatly in his arms. Yes, they definitely had to find Jordan Waters. The lady and he had some unfinished business to tend to.  
  
Note: Hi all! Sorry it took so long for this update. I know there might be some of you wondering if Immortals are 'born' or are 'foundlings'; I'm going by Highlander: Final Dimension (H:FD) when a bit states that Connor (as well as Duncan) was born on the shores of Glen Finnan. Updates are taking longer than I'd anticipated; please bear with me. 


	12. Preparations

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to JRRT, his estate/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Civility re: any review(s) is greatly appreciated; flames will be cheerfully ignored as always.  
  
Games, changes and fears  
  
When will they go from here  
  
When will they stop  
  
I believe that fate has brought us here  
  
And we should be together babe  
  
But we're not  
  
I play it off but I'm dreaming of you  
  
And I'll keep my cool, but I'm fiendin  
  
I try to say goodbye and I choke  
  
I try to walk away and I stumble  
  
Though I try to hide it, it's clear  
  
My world crumbles when you are not there  
  
Goodbye and I choke  
  
I try to walk away and I stumble  
  
Though I try to hide it, it's clear  
  
My world crumbles when you are not there  
  
I may appear to be free  
  
But I'm just a prisoner of your love  
  
And I may seem all right and smile when you leave  
  
But my smiles are just a front  
  
Just a front, hey  
  
I play it off, but I'm dreaming of you  
  
And I'll keep my cool but I'm feignin'  
  
Here is my confession  
  
May I be your possession  
  
Boy I need your touch  
  
Your love, kisses and such  
  
With all my might I try  
  
But this I can't deny  
  
Deny  
  
I play it off but I'm dreaming of you  
  
(But I'm dreaming of you babe)  
  
And I'll keep my cool but I'm feenin'  
  
------"I Try"/ Macy Gray  
  
Preparations  
  
After their meeting, Jordan felt a smidgen better than she had all morning. Fully expecting Lord Elrond to deny her petition, for a tense moment, it appeared he would do exactly that. Instead, to the Immortal's surprise, the Elven Lord granted her request. By obtaining his permission to join the hunt, Jordan felt she'd won a major concession from the Ruler of Imladris, and rightly so.  
  
It was a victory in itself-considering, at his whim, Lord Elrond could easily restrict her movements in Rivendell and revoke any liberties Jordan currently enjoyed. Despite this success, not all was well with the Immortal. The woman hadn't been sleeping well-ever since parting with Legolas after their walk in the woods. The concerted effort to resist the ever-increasing desire to be near the golden Elf was draining, and Jordan was starting to feel the emotional strain.  
  
"How did this happen?" Jordan asked herself; murmuring softly, she continued the one-sided conversation.  
  
"Or more accurately, 'when' did this happen? I know I'm attracted to him, but when did it turn into this burning desire to be with him at all times? This can't be good . . . or normal."  
  
Jordan lost track of the many times when she was sorely tempted to seek Legolas out and explain her actions to the Elf-but the voice of reason always won in the end.  
  
** We survive in secrecy . . . ** Duncan's words echoed in her mind during those moments of weakness.  
  
It didn't, however, change the fact that Jordan missed Legolas' company, his kisses, and the way his hands lingered, as if it were the most natural thing to do. She just plain missed him. Thinking about the Elf, Jordan walked with no particular direction in mind. Her face took on a dreamy expression as she relived their last kiss, her mind replaying every detail, her memory supplying every sensation.  
  
"Well, I guess that won't be happening any time soon . . . " Jordan muttered dejectedly to herself. To add to her misery, she willingly volunteered (albeit reluctantly) to face the hideous Orc creatures again. In her heart, Jordan felt if she never saw another Orc again, it would be too soon.  
  
"What the hell was I thinking?!" she wondered aloud to herself as she roamed the lush, manicured grounds.  
  
At home the Buzz was a handy alarm, alerting her to the presence of other Immortals; however, in Rivendell she grew so accustomed to its constant presence, that unless she concentrated, to prevent information overload, Jordan's senses tamped it down low, so low that she barely registered it.  
  
Feeling punchy, Jordan looked around, fairly confident she was alone, and hopefully-out of earshot. Tossing her head back, she flipped her long hair away from her shoulders with an exaggerated sweep of her hand; looking down her nose, Jordan frowned while affecting a snobbish air.  
  
"I would never allow a woman to fight Orcs-it would be folly." The woman paraphrased Lord Elrond's words in her haughtiest, most arrogant tone.  
  
Jordan's ego was still ruffled over Lord Elrond's statement, yet her sense of fair play prodded her to make a half-hearted effort to see it from the Elf's point of view. Stopping to rest under the wide canopy of a shade tree, Jordan laid on her back, looking up at the sky thru the verdant leaves. She smiled wryly, the position reminding her of her arrival- looking up at the sky on her back-minus the throbbing headache. Running her hands lightly over the velvety carpet of grass, Jordan plucked a long blade, stroking her face with it as she thought about her meeting with the Elven Lord.  
  
** It wouldn't do to have a guest get maimed or killed while under his care. If the shoe were on the other foot, I'd probably feel the same way. ** she reasoned with herself.  
  
** I should be glad he didn't kick me out of Rivendell. It's his House, his Rules. There are worse things than being lectured by the Alpha-Elf. I could be at work right now! ** a tiny smile hovered on her lips.  
  
** But I'm here. For how long is anyone's guess. Maybe I'm supposed to do a good deed or something; a crystal ball would be handy right about now-- this waiting is going to drive me nuts! ** she thought. Irritated, Jordan sat up, turning her face upward to the sky.  
  
"Duncan, where are you?!!!" she bellowed up at the sky.  
  
"Do you hear me, Highlander?!" fluffy, white cumulus clouds floated lazily in the fair sky overhead, unmindful of the perturbed woman below. Balling her hands into fists, she slammed them into the ground, succeeding only in bruising them.  
  
"Owwww!" Jordan climbed to her feet, rubbing her sore hands.  
  
"Great. That accomplished much Jordie. Oh well. You got what you wanted- you're going to get to play army with the boys. No use wasting the day- there's things to do, people to see, weapons to tend . . . " Jordan's sensible side took over, mentally ticking off the details that needed to be taken care of before the hunt as she made her way back to the main hall.  
  
Thankful she trained with Duncan before her arrival at Rivendell, a part of Jordan welcomed the challenge of pitting her skills against creatures that, up until now, existed only in fantasy novels and films. Passing Ceallach in the breezeway, Jordan asked the servant where Gimli could be found. To her surprise, the woman found she actually knew where the she- Elf was directing her. Making a quick trip to her quarters, Jordan grabbed her gear before setting out to find the Dwarf.  
  
** Elves, Dwarves and Orcs-oh my! Maybe I'll write my own fantasy novel and become disgustingly rich and not ever have to work again . . . ** Jordan thought. The more she considered the possibilities, the more she liked the thought; the only glitch was that she had to find her way back home.  
  
Coming to an open field flanked on three sides by towering trees, Jordan spied Gimli in the distance, relieved and disappointed to see he was alone. Calling to him as she neared, the Dwarf raised an axe in greeting. Despite first hand experience, the Immortal was still surprised that this creature actually existed. Taller than she'd expected, and fiercer than she'd imagined, Jordan made a note to set the fairy tales straight when she returned home.  
  
Dressed in rough woolen breeches and a suede-like tunic, Gimli's coarse, red hair was clean, his abundant beard kept in order by braids; the Dwarf's stout feet were shod with sturdy boots, buffed to a dull shine. The Dwarf was practicing with his small throwing axes; as she neared, Jordan looked with interest at the various axes laid out on a table, as well as Gimli's helm and protective outer gear.  
  
Within easy reach lay cleaning and sharpening supplies; placing her weapons on the table, Jordan set her sash near the Katana; carefully taking her shurikens out, they caught the sunlight, twinkling like fallen stars. Turning towards the Dwarf who was quietly observing her, she forced a bright smile on her face as she greeted him.  
  
"Good morn, Gimli, I believe we were to compare weapons." Squinting up at her, he gave her a pointed glance, seeing the shadows in her eyes, as well as under them.  
  
"Are you up to it, Lass?" The Dwarf asked, the kindness in his eyes tempering his stern words as he studied the woman before him.  
  
"What, are you trying to back out?" She asked the Dwarf archly, a grin on her face. Gimli's brows knitted together as he gave a snort of indignation.  
  
"Step up to the table, Lass, and show yer mettle." Gimli growled; despite his tone, his face was good-natured.  
  
"You'd make a good carnie at a state fair, Gimli." Jordan commented appreciatively; no doubt the Dwarf could rile up a body without meaning too- if they didn't know the feisty Dwarf.  
  
Jordan and Gimli spent the remainder of the day practicing, showing each other their weapons, and demonstrating their skills before trading arms. She found the Dwarf's axes heavy and unwieldy for her taste, but admired its brutal effectiveness. Though he would never say it, the Dwarf thought Jordan's weapons, albeit extraordinary and atypical in design, were flimsy-- especially her Katana, which was light as a feather; Jordan saw the Dwarf frown as he handled her sword.  
  
"Different, isn't it?" she said. The Dwarf gave a noncommittal grunt.  
  
"I'm sure it . . . serves a purpose." Gimli said, in a rare attempt to be tactful; he carefully placed it back on the table.  
  
Looking around, Jordan searched for something suitable for what she had in mind. Gimli crossed his thick arms over his barrel-shaped chest, watching her in amusement.  
  
"What are you up to, Lass?" he asked, curious.  
  
"You'll see." Jordan said, her tone mysterious as she continued her search.  
  
As the last resort, she tugged a ribbon free from her sleeve. Jordan picked up her sword and tossed the ribbon high in the air as she adjusted her grip on the Katana. They watched as the gossamer fabric fluttered lazily down; holding her sword with the cutting edge up, the delicate fabric separated into two pieces when it come into contact with the blade. Reaching for the ribbons, Gimli held it up, inspecting it. The ribbon was neatly cut in two; so clean was the cut that there was no evidence of fraying.  
  
"It serves my purpose." Jordan said with a smile.  
  
"Aye, that it does." The Dwarf grunted with grudging admiration.  
  
"Back home, way back in the day, the sword smiths proved the great Katana's worthiness . . . "  
  
Jordan intentionally let her words trail off; pausing dramatically, she looked at the Dwarf as she returned the Katana to its scabbard, sliding it in smoothly and quietly, without so much as a whisper of the metal.  
  
" . . . By it's ability to cut a slave's body in half with a single stroke." Jordan said.  
  
Gimli regarded the unusual sword with a newfound sense of respect, watching the way she handled it with something akin to reverence. Jordan winked at the Dwarf before returning her attention to the axes. As the woman studied the geometrical designs on the Dwarf's axe head, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gimli hold up a shuriken, the star flashing in the sunlight. Curious, he exerted gentle pressure, testing its strength, and then pressed harder when it refused to bend beneath his fingers. It was stronger than it looked.  
  
*Just like it's owner, * the Dwarf thought to himself.  
  
Turning it, Gimli studied it from different angles. Using his index finger to lightly touch one point of the star, the metal sank into his finger tip as easily as a hot knife thru butter; the Dwarf sucked his breath in in surprise, as he sliced a calloused finger tip open on it's razor-sharp edge, the pain registering in his brain shortly thereafter. Jordan was about to caution the Dwarf when she heard his startled intake of breath; her warning came too late.  
  
"Careful Gimli! It's sharp--!" she called.  
  
Dropping the shuriken, Gimli watched in wonder as blood oozed from the cut, still not quite believing he'd received hurt from such a small and seemingly innocent object. Waving her aside, the Dwarf wiped his finger on the hem of his tunic; it continued to bleed.  
  
"It was deliberate! I but meant to trim a callous and went a wee bit deep. I'm fine, Lass!" Gimli said as he hurriedly placed the bleeding digit in his mouth.  
  
"Oh, Gimli-I'm sorry! I should've said something earlier." Jordan belatedly apologized, upset that she hadn't thought to warn the Dwarf sooner.  
  
Given Rivendell's lack of cable Television and the other amenities of home, Jordan spent many nights (and a good portion of it) sharpening her weapons, throwing herself into the familiar and comforting task-it helped take her mind off her unusual circumstances, and lately, gave her something constructive to do as she pondered her growing . . . feelings for Legolas. The results were the extra-sharp edges on her weapons.  
  
Jordan quickly went to Gimli. Prying the finger from the Dwarf's mouth, she examined it. Just as she thought-despite the Dwarf's tough, calloused skin, the shuriken had sliced deeply; fortunately it was a clean cut, and Gimli's hands weren't too dirty.  
  
Unfortunately, it was located on the very tip of his finger-a tender spot, and subject to much use and pressure, which would cause it bleed freely until it healed. Instructing the Dwarf to hold his freely bleeding finger above chest level, Gimli watched in amusement and a certain amount of interest as Jordan took another a shuriken from the table and lifted her gown, slicing a strip of cloth from the hem of her chemise. Placing a wad of the cloth on his finger, Jordan applied pressure on the cut to stem the bleeding. Wrapping the remaining fabric around it, Jordan tied it with a fine knot, making a crude band-aid.  
  
"You're lucky the star's clean, Gimli, otherwise I'd have to give you a tetanus shot!" Jordan teased the Dwarf.  
  
"Lass, nobody shoots a Dwarf and lives to tell about it!" Gimli sputtered indignantly; his brows drew so close together it appeared as one bushy brow. Laughing 'till her side hurt, Jordan laughed harder at the Dwarf's fierce expression.  
  
"It's not what you think; a tetanus shot is, well, never mind-you'll be fine." Jordan said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.  
  
With a playful grin, Jordan kissed his fingertip, laughing again as the Dwarf turned beet red; Gimli quickly snatched his finger back, muttering beneath his breath. Despite his chagrin at cutting his finger on a bit of (extraordinarily sharp) tin, the Dwarf enjoyed the fuss Jordan made over it, and their playful banter.  
  
The woman, though at times odd, was a breath of fresh air, delighting him- especially since the pointy-eared Princeling seemed to be affected by her, losing his composure in her presence. Eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth, Jordan bit back another laugh as Gimli refused to look at her. Deciding to leave the Dwarf with some dignity, she turned her attention back to their practice.  
  
"Check it out." She said.  
  
Gathering five shurikens, Jordan eyed the target before her. She was glad there was no wind, as it could potentially altar her stars' course. Concentrating, she drew back her arm and threw the stars in rapid succession at a target placed fifty paces away, where they landed dead center in a perfect pentagon. With a whoop of victory, Jordan turned to the Dwarf.  
  
"How d'you like them apples?" she asked smugly, pleased with herself.  
  
Jordan's arm was a touch sore; it'd been a while since she'd practiced with her stars; instead, she'd concentrated on her sword and stick skills. She'd make sure to correct that oversight. Gimli grunted, suitably impressed, as the sound of an arrow whizzed thru the air.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Jordan attempted to steady her jangling nerves; the arrow landed with a thud in the center of her pentagon and a slight increase in the Buzz simultaneously alerted her to his arrival. Turning, the woman and the Dwarf watched Legolas make his way toward them from fifty paces away, a small smile on his handsome face.  
  
*Poetry in motion* Jordan couldn't help but think to herself.  
  
The look the Elf gave Jordan made her pulse quicken. It had been five days since she'd seen him; five days of pure misery, reliving the feel of Legolas' touch, imagining his kisses, and seeing him across the room, so close yet so far away. Remembering her vow, Jordan reluctantly looked away, studiously rearranging the weapons. Legolas' smile faltered before it died, his perfect features settled once again into its usual serene expression.  
  
"Ah, the pointy-ear arrives. Why doesn't that surprise me?" Gimli muttered; despite his words, the affection in his voice was plain.  
  
The tables were turned, they were. It was amusing to see the Elf seek out the woman at every chance possible. Through all their travels, Legolas always caused the female heads to turn-human and Elf-kind alike, some going out of their way to display their feminine charms, but he, Legolas, never gave them more than a passing glance, always treating them with the utmost courtesy. The Elf extricated himself from undesired female attention in a way that left the aforementioned feeling it was their doing. As their wanderings came to a close, the Dwarf sensed the growing restlessness in the Elf.  
  
The Dwarf liked to believe he knew the Elf as well as any Dwarf could hope to understand an Elf-especially with the oddness of their unlikely friendship. Thinking back, Gimli was certain the restlessness was set in motion after the valiant Elf caught his first glimpse of the sea from the White City. And that's when Jordan literally appeared. In his long life, Gimli could not remember seeing a woman fight the way Jordan does, not even the Shield-Maiden of Rohan, the Lady Éowyn.  
  
To see Legolas so besotted with Jordan was a source of joy and concern for Gimli. For a time it looked as if the she and the Elf were forging a relationship of sorts, when just as suddenly, it ended. Not overly romantic by nature, the Dwarf remained silent on the matter, watching the events unfold; however, as the situation between Jordan and Legolas continued in its present state, he was genuinely puzzled; when Gimli casually broached the subject with his friend, the Elf refused to discuss it, saying nothing more of the matter other than 'Jordan would return.'  
  
It didn't bother Gimli; Legolas would share his thoughts when ready, and only then. As for Jordan, the woman took to hiding herself away in the House of Healing, or would suddenly remember a task or errand that bore her away in the opposite direction from the Elf and the Dwarf. Gimli's brows drew together as a thought came to him.  
  
* Should she find her way back 'home', what will become of the pointy-ear? * His musing was interrupted at Legolas' words.  
  
"Quel re (good day). Comparing skills, are we?" Legolas said. Nodding to Jordan in greeting, he stopped before his friend.  
  
"Is your finger all right?" Gimli muttered something unintelligible to Jordan's ears. The Elf however, smiled widely and chuckled before turning his attention back to the woman.  
  
"Seems like the right thing to do before we leave." Jordan said.  
  
"Leave?" Legolas frowned. "Manke naa lye autien (Where are 'we' going)?"  
  
"I heard there was a party, and I'm invited." She said lightly, pleased she actually understood what the Elf said-practicing with the Head Healer definitely paid off, even if it mainly consisted of common key phrases and short sentences. The Dwarf and Elf simply looked at her, twin blank expressions on their faces. With an exasperated sigh, Jordan clarified herself.  
  
"To hunt Orcs, of course." Jordan said, looking at Legolas, waiting for his reaction. The Elf glanced at Gimli, seeking confirmation; the Dwarf merely raised a bushy eyebrow, silently watching the exchange between his companions as he rested his hands atop his great war axe.  
  
"By whose leave?" The look of concern on Legolas' face didn't go unnoticed by Jordan.  
  
"Lord Elrond himself" she said quietly, watching the expression on Legolas' face darken. Gimli discretely busied himself with his helm, polishing it with a cloth as the woman and Elf talked. Coming to stand in front of her, Legolas felt his stomach lurch in warning.  
  
"Jordan-this is not a game, it is dangerous; I fear for your safety. The Orcs you battled when we found you are fierce. When we hunt, there may be Uruk-hai in their numbers as well. They are larger, faster and stronger- their sole purpose is but to kill. Is there no way to make you reconsider?" Unable to help himself, Legolas raised a hand to caress her cheek; Jordan shored her determination, stepping away from the Elf before he could touch her, hating herself when she saw the hurt in the Elf's eyes; his lips pressed together briefly in anger and frustration, his bright gaze darkening slightly. Just as quickly, it was gone.  
  
"Thank you for your concern, but I'll be okay. This time we'll be  
fighting together instead of you two rescuing me, right? Legolas, I need to do this. " Jordan looked at him, her chin lifted in defiance, as if daring him to try and stop her. Legolas' blue eyes pleaded with her to reconsider. Feeling she had to justify her competence for the second time that morning had the Immortal fuming. Seeing the stubborn set of her jaw and the determination in Jordan's face made the Elf feel frustration-something he hadn't felt in ages.  
  
** I don't remember a female giving me this much trouble ** the Elf thought to himself, bewildered..  
  
"Jordan, you could get hurt-I cannot abide the thought of harm coming to you." Changing tactics, the Elf tried cajoling her with his honeyed tone.  
  
"That's sweet, Legolas, but I'm a big girl-I'll take my chances. Though if anything should happen, just don't let them cut my head off, okay?" Jordan said jokingly. Listening quietly to the conversation, something about the way she said it made Gimli's ears perk up; he paused in his task.  
  
"What happens if they do?" Gimli asked. Jordan turned to the Dwarf.  
  
"Same thing that happens to anyone who loses his or her head- death! Aside from ticks, I'm not sure anything else can live without their heads. But I've heard of snapping turtle heads that still bite after being beheaded. Who knows, maybe it's an urban legend or something; besides, I'm not sure how you'll send my body home. " Jordan said, a teasing grin on her face. Gimli simply stared at her. The Elf, however, still had serious qualms about her decision.  
  
"As you wish." Legolas said curtly, not knowing what to make of her odd words, the Elf decided to consider the matter a stalemate.  
  
** How do I make you see reason before its too late? ** the Elf thought to himself.  
  
In the time remaining before the hunt, he hoped to make her see reason; how remained to be seen. The Elf's bright blue eyes were troubled, but he gave no further protests; instead, Legolas nodded, studying Jordan's face, searching for an answer to his unspoken question before turning to inspect the weapons laid out on the table. Apprehensive at first, Jordan was prepared to go another verbal round with the Elf, but was thankful Legolas did not pursue the matter further; in fact, his attitude was courteous and businesslike as he maintained his distance. Jordan followed his lead, her heart heavy, aching for his touch.  
  
** 'keep your distance' -- you got what you wanted, Jordan. ** she lectured herself.  
  
** Why does it feel wrong..? ** she asked herself sadly.  
  
Sensing the storm had passed, Gimli looked between the two; he knew the Elf well enough to see the hurt flash across his features when Jordan stepped away from him. The woman herself did not appear sincere in her desire to be apart; instead, she appeared . . . regretful. Suspecting the reason for Jordan's actions, Gimli kept his opinion to himself, his perceptive eyes taking in all the minute details, as he quietly continued to observe the pair.  
  
Strangely disappointed Legolas didn't insist Jordan stay in Rivendell, she missed the brief, calculating looks the Dwarf occasionally cast her way while the trio inspected their weapons. As they prepared their gear, Jordan was careful to keep Gimli between her and the Elf, a gesture not lost on either males as they gave Jordan pointers on how to bring down Orcs and Uruk-hais, and the differences between the two creatures.  
  
Taking out his long handled white knives, Legolas gave Jordan a brief demonstration of its use. She admired the way he moved-gracefully, effortlessly. The Elf's economy of effort was innate, efficient, and judging by his arrow's placement, his aim left no doubt to its lethal accuracy. Legolas certainly was the personification of his skills: beautiful, sure and deadly. Bored, the Dwarf watched the Elf show off, when suddenly, inspiration struck.  
  
"Legolas-Jordan's sticks are similar to your knives; perhaps the two of you could spar, see what the other has to offer."  
  
** And work out this tension betwixt you. ** Gimli added silently.  
  
With an enigmatic glance at the Dwarf, Legolas sheathed his knives, then looked at Jordan to see her answer. Leaping at the chance to learn from the Elf, Jordan nodded her assent. With a shrug and a graceful sweep of his hand, Legolas indicated for her to precede him as they left the weapons table, walking to the open training field. Grasping her sticks in her hands, Jordan wished she had pants on.  
  
Facing the Elf, Jordan assumed a fighting stance: her legs shoulder width apart, hips turned just so, arms raised to chest level. Her hands held the sticks perpendicular, one to block, the other to stab. It was hard to concentrate with the handsome Elf standing before her. Quicker than thought, Legolas reached behind his back and whipped his white knives out with a flourish, mirroring Jordan, the movement too fast for the eye to follow. Jordan swallowed hard.  
  
** Great-what'd I get myself into?! ** she thought for the second time in the day with a sinking feeling.  
  
The handsome Elf arched an eyebrow at her in an unmistakable challenge. Taking a deep breath, Jordan gripped her sticks more firmly as she struck first, testing the Elf's strength and speed; Legolas' eyes never left hers, his knives and her sticks clacked together, one-two-three-four, hitting high, low, center. Gimli leaned against the table; as he watched the two trade blows; the Dwarf congratulated himself on the stroke of pure genius.  
  
** It takes a Dwarf to set things right! ** He thought to himself with great satisfaction.  
  
Pulling his pipe from its holder on his belt, Gimli took a pinch of pipe weed from a pouch on his waist and settled down to enjoy the show. Feinting, testing, woman and the Elf fell into a rhythm, striking and blocking in a figure eight pattern; concentrating on countering the Elf's moves, Jordan didn't notice when or how she and Legolas moved across the open field, their feet carrying them several times so close to Gimli that the Dwarf ducked and was forced to dodge out of the way or get hit by a stick, knife or elbow.  
  
Despite her clothing, Jordan was able to keep her feet-just barely; moving back or pressing her advantage when the opportunity arose, she was under no illusion and knew the Elf was not exerting his full effort; the gesture both touched and irritated her. Legolas, on the other hand, was pleased to discover that the woman was adept in the use of her weapons; it allayed some of the fears he felt upon learning Jordan would accompany the hunting party.  
  
Secure in the knowledge that at any moment, if he really wanted to, he could easily disarm her, Legolas held back, instead enjoying the simple physical exercise, which allowed him to vent some of the frustration he felt at her obvious avoidance of him; versed in the art of weaponry as Jordan was, she certainly is no match for his skill and prowess.  
  
One appraising look at Jordan was enough for the Elf to end their sparring session. With a final jarring strike to Jordan's sticks-which she narrowly blocked, Legolas sheathed his knives with the same flourish he whipped them out with, before stepping back from her. It took a moment for Jordan to realize they were finished-her right hand was finishing it's back hand swipe to the Elf's head when Legolas casually reached up and gently but firmly grasped her wrist, her stick less than an inch away from his face-- which looked as fresh as if he'd just arrived from his quarters.  
  
Not a single strand of his hair out of place; Jordan, on the other hand, did not fare so well. Her forehead was covered in perspiration, and a big, fat drop trickled down her temple. Her hair, previously worn loose, was now in wild disarray about her head, a stray lock of which fell across her eyes. Her nostrils flared, Jordan was panting from their exertions. His blue eyes still fixed onto hers, Legolas inclined his head slightly with a crooked grin on his face.  
  
"Lle ume quell (you did well), Jordan." The Elf said, brushing the errant lock of hair from her eyes with his free hand; his touch was feather light.  
  
"Thank you." she managed to answer, trying to not sound so out of breath.  
  
It didn't help that Legolas' thumb was deliberately caressing her wrist- right over her hammering pulse. The movement caused goose bumps to rise up her arm, as well as accelerate her already racing heart rate. As if reading her mind, the Elf's thumb deliberately lingered over her pulse point as he searched her face; Jordan struggled to not look away.  
  
Unnerved by his steady gaze, Jordan closed her eyes as she averted her face. After a moment, the Elf gently released her hand, stepping away from her in a fluid motion as he returned to the weapons table. Unsure of what just passed between them, Jordan took the opportunity to quickly blot the perspiration from her forehead and face with her sleeves, before raking her fingers thru her hair in an attempt to put it back in some semblance of order before she rejoined her companions.  
  
The setting sun signaled the end of the day; as Legolas and Gimli put the final sharpening touches on their bladed weapons, Jordan went to gather her shurikens. Drawing close to the target, upon closer inspection, she was astonished to see in the middle of her pentagon, Legolas shot not one, but two arrows, the second splitting the first perfectly in half.  
  
Note: Surprised? I sure am! I certainly didn't expect to post again so soon. Thank you again to everyone (you KNOW who you are) who's bothered to take the time to send a review/comment/compliment/concern. 


	13. A Final Attempt

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to JRRT, his estate/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Civility re: any review(s) is greatly appreciated; flames will be cheerfully ignored as always.  
  
Ch. 13 A Final Attempt  
  
Shortly after parting with the Dwarf and the Elf, Jordan stopped by the House of Healing. After a quick visit with Læurenthail (whose knowing looks Jordan doggedly ignored), the Immortal went to assist Ciërce, the remaining Apprentice, who was busy extracting essential oils from a pile of fresh herbs. Pausing in the doorway, Jordan inhaled deeply, enjoying the soothing scents; her weariness faded as she entered the room.  
  
"Y'know, Ciërce, I've never been big on aromatherapy, but whatever you've got in there has changed my mind." The woman commented enthusiastically; carefully setting her weapons down on a small table, the Immortal pulled up a stool and joined the Apprentice at the worktable. Jordan watched, fascinated, as the Elf performed the painstaking process. The Apprentice smiled at her, his clear grey eyes followed her gaze.  
  
"What's that?" Jordan asked, looking dubiously at a weed the Elf set aside.  
  
"Asëa aranion; also known as Kingsfoil, or Athelas." Ciërce answered while he continued working.  
  
"What will you do with this?" Jordan inquired, curious. She picked up the discarded plant; cautiously sniffing its long leaves, her eyes widened-it smelled surprisingly sweet; the nondescript weed's crushed leaves were the source of the pungent, refreshing fragrance; closing her eyes, Jordan could almost imagine it was a clear, spring day.  
  
"Mmmmmm . . . Can I have this?" she asked the Elf. Ciërce smiled at the Immortal; her face wore such an eager, hopeful expression that he couldn't refuse her simple request.  
  
"Of course. And what will you do with it?" the Apprentice asked, wondering what use she had in mind for the unassuming plant. The Elf paused in his task, watching as Jordan slid off the high stool.  
  
"Oh, I think I'll put it under my pillow . . . maybe it'll bring pleasant dreams." Jordan said, with a twinkle in her eye.  
  
** Of Legolas ** she thought.  
  
Cradling the crushed plant, Jordan found a square of linen in a woven basket that held clean linen remnants; dunking it in cold water, the Immortal wrung out the excess before gently tucking her prize into the linen and placed it atop her weapons.  
  
"In that case, you're welcome to take another one." Ciërce said, smiling at Jordan's surprise.  
  
"Oh, thank you! You're a doll!" the Immortal said, pleased. The figure of speech was lost on the Elf, but he took it to mean a positive thing.  
  
** This daughter of Man is easy to please! ** Ciërce thought to himself; he watched the woman carefully pore over the remaining plants before finally selecting one that was to her liking. Holding it tenderly, Jordan placed it with its crushed companion.  
  
"This one I'm going to keep in my room; hopefully I can get it to grow roots . . . I'm going to take it home with me." The Immortal said quietly. The Elf nodded; he understood. Looking at the remaining pile of Athelas, Ciërce continued with his explanation.  
  
"Aside from it's healing properties, Athelas' virtue is multifold: to clear the mind, invigorate the disposition and lighten the heart of not only the one afflicted, but all present. After the essence is removed, the plant will be dried; it may then be used as a tea, or steeped in an infusion- alone or with other herbs-or it may also be ground and put into a poultice; some even cook with it, though it is not one of its more common uses; most Men do not consider it a useful plant, but there are a few who know of it's virtues." the Apprentice explained.  
  
"What a great way to use everything. Nothing goes to waste-I like that!" Jordan said.  
  
"Is that not how healing is practiced in your . . . land?" Ciërce asked, puzzled. Jordan thought carefully before answering.  
  
"Well," she began slowly, "Its not the standard anymore. Before, the bulk of our medicines were derived from natural plant resources; now we're turning more and more to bioengineering as our original sources become . . . depleted."  
  
*** like our rainforests and the ozone layer *** the Immortal thought grimly.  
  
"Your land sounds strange." Ciërce said while continuing his task.  
  
"Trust me, it can be strange." Jordan said with a laugh.  
  
The Immortal worked alongside the Apprentice, until-after two hours had passed, the Elf insisted that Jordan retire for the night. Ciërce watched her leave, his amusement growing with each passing moment; the woman was a sight, indeed; usually neatly groomed, tonight Jordan's long raven hair was mussed, the ends tangled, looking like she'd been caught in a wind storm; one sleeve was missing a ribbon, and there were several dark, oily spots on her gown-as if she'd been cleaning her weapons in the Elvish garb.  
  
As the Immortal prepared to return to her quarters, the Apprentice couldn't help but think the woman looked ready to storm Mount Doom itself, fully armed as she was; incongruously, Jordan carefully held the linen wrapped Athelas plants in her cupped hands as she bade the Elf good night. Shaking his head, Ciërce chuckled quietly to himself as he watched her disappear into the shadows.  
  
Jordan was looking forward to a quiet evening alone as she slowly trudged back to her quarters when a servant met her on the pathway and told the Immortal she was expected to dine with Lord Elrond and the rest of the hunting party.  
  
"When and where?" she asked the Elf.  
  
"Within the hour in the main hall, Lady Waters." The servant said. Jordan nodded her acceptance, resigned to the fact that her quiet evening was no more.  
  
"Thank you. I'll be there." The woman said, stifling a flash of irritation. Inside, Jordan was fuming at the last-minute invitation. The servant nodded once before melting silently into the shadows.  
  
*** What's up with this eleventh-hour invitation?! Doesn't matter---I'll be there. Lord Elrond says 'Come', and I'll come. It's not as if I have a choice. *** she complained to herself.  
  
The Immortal stalked towards her quarters. After filling a golden chalice with cool water, Jordan gently placed the Athelas in it; burying her nose in the plant's long leaves, its fragrance improved her soured mood, dispelling the anger that was simmering beneath the surface of her mind.  
  
"Athelas, you're like Ecstasy, Prozac and Ativan all in one!" the woman declared to her empty room. "Without the harmful side effects!" She giggled to herself.  
  
Next to a better frame of mind, Jordan listed a bath as her highest priority, grabbing her toiletries and robe on her way to the bathing chamber. After a thorough wash, the Immortal was in a vastly improved mood as she stood before the mirror-dried, dressed and ready.  
  
"Its just dinner with the troops. You can do this!" The Immortal told her reflection.  
  
Giving her tresses a final stroke with the hairbrush, Jordan tossed her hair back and squared her shoulders before stepping thru the door. Walking at a sedate pace, she suddenly stood still; her ears caught the sound of many bells ringing, their melodious chimes clear and silvery.  
  
"I guess that means dinner is served----or is it a call to dinner?" Jordan wondered aloud.  
  
It was at that exact moment a servant appeared in the corridor; after learning she had ten minutes left in which to make it to dinner on time, Jordan hurriedly thanked the Elf. Picking up her skirts, the Immortal set off at a sprint; the Elf stared after the woman, frowning in disapproval as he watched her hasty departure. As she ran, Jordan was ever thankful the sturdy slippers she wore were comfortable as sneakers. Slowing her pace as she neared her destination, the Immortal took a moment to smooth her hair and dress down, before fanning her heated face with her hands.  
  
In the main hall, Jordan arrived in time to be seated with the rest of the attendants; half expecting to sit with the servants, to her immense relief, she was led to the empty seat next to Gimli.  
  
** At least I'm not in the farthest seat possible. ** the woman congratulated herself as she looked down the length of the long table. Under the table, Jordan placed her feet on the footstool thoughtfully provided for her use.  
  
** Now my feet won't dangle. ** she thought, relieved.  
  
Sitting in a chair made for the tall Elves made the petite Immortal feel quite feminine; however, Jordan didn't want to let her feet dangle for an indeterminate length of time. Swinging her legs wasn't an option, either. Nor was sitting cross-legged. In a gown. It just wasn't comfortable.  
  
The Dwarf looked up at the Immortal, greeting Jordan with a grunt before turning back to his tankard of ale. She smiled, knowing that nothing (or for that matter, no one-with their senses intact) comes between a Dwarf and his drink. Once seated, Jordan looked up, only to meet Legolas' gaze; she offered him a brief smile before tearing her gaze away to accept a goblet of Miruvor from a servant. The cordial possessed wonderful qualities that Jordan was only just beginning to appreciate.  
  
When Jordan looked back, the golden Archer was conversing with the Elf to his right. It was hard to not notice the fair Prince among the gathering of darker haired Elves; not only was his pale hair a beacon of light among the brunettes, but there was . . . something about the son of Thranduil that set him apart from the other Elves; something indescribable, but tangible nonetheless. As she pondered Legolas' effortless ability to dominate her thoughts, Jordan's eyes happened to rest on the Dwarf's hand; she noticed Gimli's finger had been freshly bandaged.  
  
"How's the finger, Gimli?" the Immortal whispered.  
  
"This wee scratch? Phagh!" the Dwarf whispered loudly back. Despite his bluster, Jordan saw Gimli was careful to not use his injured finger unnecessarily.  
  
In a lower tone the Dwarf confessed, "It pains me a bit. The Apprentice said you'd just departed when he changed the bandage. He wasn't as fine to look at. I was glad to be done with it." Gimli said, nodding sagely as if it were the wisest thing he'd ever done.  
  
Jordan laughed at that; fully aware that the Elves' beauty (even the males), surpassed those of the other races (and wondering if it was Gimli's first tankard of ale), the Immortal was nevertheless pleased by the Dwarf's compliment.  
  
Discretely studying her dinner companions, Jordan felt privileged and awestruck to be surrounded by such otherworldly beauty; it was a shame the varied interpretations of Elves back home were hideous caricatures in comparison to the real things. The Immortal admired the gorgeously attired Elves; she herself wore a simple, fitted gown of dark grey.  
  
Woven thru the flowing material was copper thread, giving the otherwise somber gown a metallic sheen that set off Jordan's unusual coloring nicely; the Lórien leaf her only adornment. Looking at the present company, despite her attempt to blend in, Jordan couldn't help but notice she stuck out like a sore thumb. Knowing the best way to hide in plain sight was to keep still and silent; Jordan did her best to not fidget in her chair. Her singular female presence (other than that of servants) caused more than a few curious-and many blatantly disapproving glances to be cast in her direction, all of which Jordan stoically ignored.  
  
** Sorry, guys, I missed the 'No she-Elves or Women Allowed' sign on the way in. ** she thought defiantly to herself.  
  
Jordan watched as servants bore great platters of foods deftly arranging them on the table before leaving to fetch more, until at last the table was laden with a bountiful spread that was unusual, yet pleasing to Jordan's eyes, and more importantly, to her palate. As the woman suspected, it was a working dinner. the conversation among the Elves focused mainly on their weapons and strategies.  
  
Unfamiliar with Rivendell's and its outlying area's topographical layout, the discussion didn't hold much meaning for the Immortal. Occasionally, she would look up to find Legolas' eyes upon her, an unreadable expression on his face. Coloring slightly, Jordan lowered her head, pretending to eat; the Elf was much too distracting for her to concentrate on her meal; her wrist still tingled where his thumb had deliberately lingered over her pulse point earlier. Looking down at her plate, Jordan pushed the food around, her appetite diminished. The musical chatter of the Elves faded to the back of Jordan's mind as her thoughts turned inward.  
  
Deep within, it shamed her to admit there were moments when she secretly embraced the violent tendencies that were inherent with Immortality; after reviving, during the first few minutes in her new state of being, the first face she saw was Duncan's, and Jordan immediately experienced an incredibly nauseating sensation, as well as a compelling urge to cut off the big Scot's head as he pushed her back onto the couch.  
  
At first, it was difficult to differentiate between bloodlust and the will to survive, for they blurred together until they became one. If not for the Highlander after her first 'death' . . Jordan smiled softly, thankful he was (and always has been) there for her. Under Duncan's disciplined tutelage, and with the passing years, Jordan became adept in controlling the violent urges; now it was simply another facet of her person. Jordan promised herself she'd give her mentor and friend a big hug when she returned home. Drawing strength and confidence from her fond memories of the Highlander, the Immortal turned her attention back to the conversation at hand.  
  
Because of the seating arrangement, Jordan enjoyed an unobstructed view of Legolas, who sat across the table and two seats away to her left, closer to Lord Elrond, as befitted his royal status.  
  
** Look but don't touch, Jordie. ** she sternly reminded herself.  
  
Gimli sat on her immediate left, three seats away from the Lord of Rivendell; given the Dwarf's proximity to Lord Elrond, it was considered a high honor for the Elf-friend; Jordan understood friendships between Dwarves and Elves were extremely rare -especially the unusual friendship that was as deep and lasting as that shared by Legolas and Gimli.  
  
From his great chair on the raised dais, Elrond Half Elven addressed the company at large; Jordan gazed at Legolas' profile, feasting her eyes on him. Sensing her close scrutiny, Legolas turned; his eyes met hers, his gaze steady.  
  
** Busted! ** Jordan thought as she pretended to look at a point just beyond the Elf; Jordan hoped Legolas would believe the ruse, yet the woman hadn't counted on the heightened color in her cheeks giving her away.  
  
Picking at her food, eating little, and sipping her Miruvor, Jordan went thru the motions of enjoying herself. Listening to the snatches of conversation surrounding her, occasionally, when asked, the Immortal would comment quietly. After putting in what she hoped was an acceptable amount of face time, Jordan intended to salvage part of her plan for some quiet time to herself. When the opportunity arose, she excused herself.  
  
Bidding goodnight to her host and those seated close to her, the Immortal insisted Legolas stay when he stood to escort her back to the room. On sudden impulse, Jordan gave the Dwarf an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a squeeze on the shoulder before she left; Gimli turned red, but sat straighter in his chair, a pleased expression softening his ruddy features. Legolas watched her leave until she was out of sight, his eyes drawn to the unconsciously provocative sway of her hips. Between the remaining meal courses, the golden Elf stood and took the seat recently vacated by Jordan. Legolas turned to the Dwarf, clearly troubled. Every fiber in his being warned him she should not accompany them, but he also knew it was useless to try and dissuade her.  
  
"Gimli, Amin dele ten' he (I'm worried about her); I do not think it wise that she come with us." Legolas said. The concern on the Elf's face was plain.  
  
"N'dela (don't worry) Lad, ye know she can take care of herself. Remember, when we found her, she was holding her own."  
  
"It's not the Orcs that worries me; it's the Uruk-hai. She has not fought one." The Elf said, keeping his voice low.  
  
"Well, 'tis good that she'll have us looking after her then. And there are  
more Elves to help. Legolas, tula, vasa ar' yulna eni'mereth (Come, eat and drink of the feast), for soon, we hunt." The Dwarf said, trying to allay his friend's fears.  
  
Reluctantly, the Elf lifted his goblet in a toast with the Dwarf, but did not drink. Biding his time, Legolas waited until everyone was freely drinking of the miruvor and ale before excusing himself. Gripping the Dwarf's shoulder, no words needed to be said as he took his leave.  
  
"Ye canna change her mind, Lad." Gimli declared; despite his gruff words, understanding shone in the Dwarf's eyes. The Elf stood to leave.  
  
"I must try, Mellonamin (my friend)." Legolas said before walking away.  
  
"Quel marth (good luck)." The Dwarf muttered with a snort; lifting his tankard in a salute, he watched the retreating figure disappear into the shadows.  
  
========   
  
========   
  
Seacouver, Washington  
  
2 weeks later  
  
Yet another day was spent searching for clues and leads; despite MacLeod's attempts, as usual, they came up empty handed.  
  
"We're going nowhere real fast." Methos said to himself. Still, he had to admire the Highlander's tenacity. He would get far in the Game, for whatever . . . cause Duncan undertook, he certainly put forth nothing less than his best effort.  
  
The late afternoon found the two Immortals outside Jordan's apartment. Methos leaned against the wall, waiting for the big Scot to open the door with his key.  
  
"Having problems MacLeod?" the elder Immortal inquired. Duncan grunted, jiggling the key in the lock.  
  
"It always sticks. I've told her repeatedly to get this damn lock changed. " The Highlander growled.  
  
"Don't force it-you might break the key in the lock." Methos advised.  
  
Duncan stopped long enough to give his friend a malevolent look; Methos threw his hands up in surrender. Extracting the key from the lock, Duncan held it up to the light, examining it closely. The Highlander took a deep breath before reinserting the key. Keeping his sigh to himself, the Ancient One noticed they weren't alone; he nodded politely to the sexy red head that was devouring him with her blue eyes as she waited for the elevator.  
  
"Do I need to call security?" She asked; her voice was pitched low, yet it carried.  
  
"Only if you've a problem I can't help you with. Do you require any . . . assistance?" Methos asked as he sauntered towards the woman.  
  
Leaning against the wall, he studied the willowy redhead, liking what he saw. Apparently the feeling was mutual, for she tossed her flame red hair back, her well-endowed bosom jutting out with the movement. With a quick glance over his shoulder, the Methos saw Duncan gained entry and had already disappeared into the apartment.  
  
"That depends. What 'assistance' do you offer?" Red asked. The Ancient One chuckled. He decided to see what she knew.  
  
"Do you know my . . . friend, Miss---?" Methos asked the redhead.  
  
"Call me Kimberly, handsome. And yes, I know Jordan. She hasn't been home for almost two weeks now." She said. The elevator doors slid open. Waiting for the passengers to exit, Jordan's neighbor ran a finger down Methos' overcoat lapel.  
  
"You can call me Adam." Methos said, enjoying this unexpected diversion. Running the tip of her tongue over her even, white teeth, Kimberly gave the Immortal a thorough once-over before stepping into the lift.  
  
"If she's with you, then she's a lucky girl." Kimberly let the question hang in the air; knowing she was fishing for information, Methos merely smiled.  
  
"Apartment 42. Drop by anytime . . . Adam." Kimberly purred as the doors slid shut. With a grin, Methos went to join the Highlander.  
  
Standing in the modest living room of Jordan's apartment, Methos stood still, getting a feel for the place. You could learn a lot about a person by what they surrounded themselves with. Duncan had disappeared into what the elder Immortal presumed was her bedroom; reluctant to follow the Highlander, Methos wandered into the remarkably large second bedroom of Jordan's apartment; it was filled with mementos of her travels: a dozen fragile lace fans, a Japanese kimono, complete with obi and geta sandals, Chinese porcelain vases, seashells and dried sea sponges and coral. Several large, carved mahogany chests were scattered about the room. Lifting the lid to a medium sized chest, it was filled with colorful, traditional Chinese women's dresses, the material gleaming as only pure silk can; Methos smiled, remembering . . .  
  
:::: Paris, France  
The Britannique  
  
After introducing himself to the young Immortal who called herself Jordan Waters, Methos hadn't planned on pursuing the acquaintance. Chalk it up to boredom, or a sense of curiosity, but after a year of self-imposed exile with the twin demons grief and anger, the Ancient One suddenly realized that he was ready for a change. Perhaps it was his desire for company-any company--that prompted him to ask Jordan out to dinner. Sharing a meal with a lovely Immortal seemed like a much better alternative than another evening alone.  
  
Methos couldn't tell what surprised him more-when the words left his  
mouth, or when Jordan cautiously accepted. After agreeing upon the time and place, Methos found himself standing in the lounge of the decidedly British hotel nestled in the heart of Paris, waiting for Jordan. Glancing at his wristwatch, Miss Waters' tardiness didn't bother him; the reservations he made guaranteed their seats. The Immortal sat in the common lounge to await his dinner date.  
  
Methos had just settled himself on the overstuffed horsehair sofa when the Buzz grew stronger, announcing the arrival of the lady of the evening. Jordan was dressed in the palest of jade green; the shimmering cheongsam material of the Qi Pao styled dress stopped just shy of her ankles; below the Mandarin collar, delicate pink blossoms anchored by golden vines sprawled across the elegant front of her bodice and trailed down mid-knee. As she walked, the high side slits revealed tantalizing glimpses of smooth, bare skin. The Ancient One couldn't help but wonder where she hid her sword as his eyes traveled up.  
Bangs and wispy tendrils of hair famed her pretty face, and her eyes .  
. . green eyes on a woman was nothing new to Methos, but on Jordan, it was startling-more so when he discovered it was her natural eye color-and not achieved by colored contact lenses; Jordan's long, black hair was drawn up and back in a thick bun secured by two long ivory . . . chopsticks. Smiling nervously, Jordan flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt. Methos rose to his feet.  
  
"A living, breathing Chinese doll. You look very nice." He murmured  
with an appreciative gleam in his eye.  
  
"Not quite, but thank you all the same. I'm sorry to have kept you  
waiting." She said, looking slightly worried.  
  
"Not a problem; the boat doesn't leave until 7:00 p.m." Methos took  
the matching cape from her hands, draping it over her shoulders; it  
settled into place with a whisper.  
  
"Boat?" Jordan echoed uncertainly.  
  
"The boat." Methos said, smiling at the apprehension in her voice.  
She smelled of sandalwood and strawberries. Exotic and sweet. The  
Ancient One gently turned her around so she was facing him. His dark  
eyes searched her face.  
  
"Can you swim?" he asked her.  
  
"Only if I need to-----" her green eyes widened.  
  
"Why?" she asked, suspiciously.  
  
"Nothing-it was just a question. Don't worry, you won't have to prove  
it tonight." He teasingly assured her, smiling at the shadow of doubt  
that lingered on her face.  
  
"Seriously, I hope you like French food." He said softly.  
  
"I guess I'll find out. I was hoping for Chinese-I brought my own utensils." Jordan answered with a smile. Methos laughed, enjoying her odd sense of humor.  
  
"In that case-shall we go?" Holding his arm out to her, Jordan took  
it with a smile. ::::  
  
Methos gently lowered the lid of the mahogany chest. Jordan had been impressed, and that night was the beginning of many nights and days together. Shaking himself out of the reverie, the Immortal continued his prowl around the room, inspecting its contents.  
  
On a curio cabinet shelf was a wooden blow gun measuring three feet in length; picking it up, the Ancient One's fingers traced the fine details; carved to resemble a dragon's head, he noted a dart was loaded and ready for use. Its removable tail was painstakingly carved as well, and looked like an arrowhead. Detaching the chamber that hung beneath the dragon's belly, Methos peered inside. From what he could see, it contained more of the mean-looking darts.  
  
Carefully replacing the weapon, the Old Man continued his walk around the room, his eyes drawn to the wall; there hung a black and white candid photograph of Jordan and Duncan; in it, Jordan was laughing, her head thrown back, the Highlander was dressed in a traditional men's kimono, his dark hair long and tied back as he smiled indulgently down at her; they were surrounded by cherry blossoms, many of which fell from the sky like fragrant rain drops. Taking a closer look at the photograph, Methos saw Jordan was dressed in the same kimono displayed in the shadow box; next to the shadow box, on a shelf, was a snow globe of the Eiffel tower. Methos turned it upside down, the glittery storm swirling around the tower.  
  
"I can't believe you kept it." He said softly. Turning it over, on the bottom, the slightly faded but still legible:  
  
To J.W. from A.P. 1998  
  
Hearing Duncan's footsteps approach, Methos replaced the snow globe on  
the shelf. Duncan appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Let's go." The Highlander said tersely.  
  
"Find what you're looking for?" Methos asked, not bothered by the  
younger Immortal's bad mood.  
  
"For now." Duncan replied. Methos gave the room one last look before  
following the big Scot out the front door.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Wide-awake, Methos sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the object he held in his hand. Closing his fist tightly, the Immortal squeezed until the cold edges of the gold circlet cut into his palm. The balmy night air had given way to the cool breath of morning; with a quick glance, the alarm clock informed him it was early-three a.m. in the morning; next to it lay his cell phone. Reaching for it, Methos hesitated before hitting a number on speed dial, counting four rings before someone answered.  
  
"Spencer Manor." A crisp, accented voice answered.  
  
"Mr. Spencer, please." The Immortal requested.  
  
"Whom shall I say is calling?"  
  
"Tell him Adam Pierson needs to speak with him." Methos said.  
  
"Very good, sir; please wait."  
  
========   
  
========   
  
A fire burned merrily in the hearth; hypnotized by the dancing orange flames, Jordan stood clad in her sleep shift; her hand automatically pulled the brush through her glossy locks. Placing the brush on the mantle, her mind replayed the afternoon's events and conversations with the Dwarf and Elf, as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming hunt.  
  
" You have a fortnight to consider your choice." Lord Elrond's words  
echoed in her mind.  
  
"I can't believe it's been two weeks already." Jordan said aloud, her feet carrying her to the bed; she was about to climb in when the Buzz grow stronger. Hurriedly wrapping a robe around her, the Immortal went to the door and pulled it open. Legolas stood in the hallway, his hand poised to knock. The surprised expression on his handsome face almost made her laugh out loud.  
  
"Hi." Jordan said, a curious look on her face as she leaned against the open door.  
  
"Hi." The Elf echoed automatically, surprised. Jordan's robe was open, and his bright gaze was drawn to the leaf resting in shadowy depths at her neckline. Though she was clothed, she may as well have been naked; behind her, light spilled into the hallway. The flimsy shift barely hid what the light of the fire and candle revealed to him. His pulse quickened; the Elf's groin twitched, his member starting to swell as he took in her present state of undress. Shaking himself, Legolas focused on what she was saying.  
  
"Legolas? Legolas! Are you okay?" Jordan was waving her hand before his eyes, a concerned expression on her face.  
  
"Er-yes. Jordan, please, I must speak with you." Legolas said. Jordan sighed, knowing he would try one last time to talk her out of going. Stepping aside, Jordan held the door wide open.  
  
"Come in, Legolas." The Elf entered, his astute eyes swept the room, taking in the neat, ordered quarters. Legolas stood before the fire, leaning against the mantle, his sharp ears tracking her movements. Poking her head in the hallway, Jordan looked in both directions. It was empty. Closing the door softly, Jordan leaned against it as she faced him.  
  
"What brings you by?" She asked, already knowing the answer. The Elf swung around, taking a step towards her, before he came to a halt, not wanting to put her on the defensive so soon.  
  
"Two things. I cannot impress upon you how dangerous the hunt will be. I beg you to please reconsider." Legolas said. Jordan was flattered that this noble Prince would plead with her to stay where she'd be safe; a wasted effort, but it was appreciated all the same. Jordan smiled, despite the gravity of the conversation.  
  
Legolas' quiet voice filled the room; was it her imagination or did his blue eyes seem a little brighter? As he spoke, Jordan watched his mouth, fascinated with the way his sensual lips moved. He was here, they were alone . . . and all she could think about was the big bed that dominated the room.  
  
*** Down, girl! *** Jordan admonished herself. Blinking several times, Jordan forced herself to concentrate on his words. Pushing herself away from the door, she walked towards him, her tone placating as she came to a stop before him.  
  
"Legolas, please-we've already had this conversation. Like I said earlier, Lord Elrond agreed to my going, and my mind is made up. I'm going. End of story." She said, her tone gentle yet firm.  
  
"Why? Why do you insist on going?" he asked, trying to make her see reason.  
  
"Utang ng loob." Jordan murmured softly, more to herself.  
  
"I do not know what you speak of. Your place is not on the battlefield-" Jordan cut him off, her ire roused.  
  
"My 'place' isn't on the battlefield?! And why not?" she asked, trying to remain calm.  
  
"You could get hurt." Legolas said.  
  
"So could you. So could anyone else going-even Gimli." Jordan countered. She watched as Legolas turned back towards the fireplace. When he looked at her, the flickering firelight bathed his face in shadow and light, making him look like some sort of elemental demi-god  
  
"This is not a game. I cannot be by your side at all times." He said quietly, his blue eyes intense.  
  
"Don't you think I know that? I don't expect you to protect me, Legolas; I know this is serious. I'm not a stranger to bloodshed and violence; I've seen war before and believe me, I hope everyone who leaves here returns in one piece." Jordan said.  
  
** Especially you ** she added silently.  
  
"Don't go. Please . . . stay." Legolas said quietly.  
  
"I can't, Legolas. I have to go. " Jordan's heart did a somersault in her chest; for a brief second, she wondered if they were talking about the same thing before dismissing the thought.  
  
** Wishful thinking. ** she told herself.  
  
"It is folly, Jordan!" The Elf insisted, trying to make her see reason.  
  
"Ohh no, buddy, I beg to differ. You asked why I'm hell bent on going-- let me tell you why, Legolas-'Utang ng loob' in Tagalog it means 'a debt from within'. First of all, I'm stuck in Middle Earth for who knows how long. Not only am I here, but I'm basically at the mercy of Lord Elrond. From the food I eat to the clothes on my back, to my freedom to roam around, I'm in his debt. I've been working at the House of Healing with Læurenthail-and the Apprentices, every moment I can, trying to pull my weight around this place, I keep my room neat and try not to be too much of a bother, but guess what?! It's not enough. And I don't think Lord Elrond- or whoever handles the coffers, treasury, purse strings or whatever else you call it around here accepts Visa or MasterCard! And I do have both." The Immortal said, her nostrils flaring as she warmed to her cause.  
  
Jordan made a mental note to write to her credit card companies when she returned home, that, contrary to their slogan, they definitely are not 'everywhere you want to be'.  
  
"And as for my 'place'-I may be a stranger in a strange land, but I go where I want to go, and if Lord Elrond doesn't have a problem with it, then neither do I. And don't you forget it, buddy!" Jordan's voice was dangerously low, her eyes spitting green fire.  
  
"That is your decision, then. You will not reconsider." Legolas said flatly. Exasperated, Jordan put her hands on her hips, looking up at the Elf, her robe parting wider with the gesture.  
  
"Yes, Legolas, that's my final answer. For better or for worse, I'm going." Her words rang with a finality that was unmistakable. Cocking her head to the side, Jordan crossed her arms under her breasts in defiance as she looked up at him, daring him to present another argument. She was starting to enjoy this; it felt oddly liberating to direct her frustration with and desire for the Elf into the safe channel of an argument. Legolas sighed, recognizing the determined set of her shoulders. It was no use. Gimli was right-Jordan would not be swayed from her decision. Perhaps he could try a different approach.  
  
His eyes traveled from her flushed face down the rest of the way; Legolas wondered if she knew how desirable she was. Clothed in her sheer night shift, despite her filmy robe, his keen eyes traced every curve of her body. The warmth of the fire and her passionate defense of her decision made her roses and cream complexion more pronounced. That, in combination with her hair loose about her shoulders, was almost his undoing  
  
They stared at each other for long minutes; Jordan wasn't sure when and how, but sure as she lived and breathed, something definitely changed. She suddenly became very aware of how close they were and the intimacy of the situation. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch his handsome face. Not trusting herself, the Immortal kept her arms to her sides as Legolas' face neared. Jordan's mouth suddenly went dry; clearing her throat, she tried to keep the conversation on track.  
  
"Y-you said there were two reasons you were here . . .?" Her voice trailed off as Legolas drew closer.  
  
"I wish to know if I have affronted you; are you angry with me?" Legolas murmured, his blue eyes skewered her in place. Not trusting herself, Jordan took a step back, then another as the Elf slowly but steadily continued to close the distance between them.  
  
"Angry? No, I - I'm, I was busy doing stuff." Jordan stammered as she continued to back away from him, stopping only when she felt her back against the door. Legolas could see the pounding pulse at the base of her throat as she looked up at him, wide eyed. Jordan desperately wished for a cup of cool water to drink. Pressing his advantage, he lowered her face to hers, until it was mere inches apart.  
  
"I've missed your . . . company, Lirimaer (lovely one)." He murmured softly, looking into her eyes. Jordan couldn't tear her eyes from his if her life depended on it.  
  
"Ummmm . . . " She couldn't come up with a coherent response when he was so close to her. If someone hadn't snuck in and poured gasoline on the fire, then the Elf alone was responsible for making her temperature rage simply by being near her. The desire in his eyes didn't help, either.  
  
"I feel you do not wish to be near me." He said, lowering his face to hers.  
  
"It's not that . . . " Jordan said weakly; her body was quivering with anticipation.  
  
"Then what is it?" Legolas said, his nearness almost too much for her.  
  
"I need to know if you truly do not desire my company." He whispered into her ear; his warm breath stirred the strands above her ear, sending goose bumps down her shoulder and arm.  
  
Trying to edge away from the Elf, Legolas placed his left palm flat against the wall by her head, effectively trapping her.  
  
"Wh-why would you think that?" Jordan asked, closing her eyes. Her voice sounded faint and breathless to her own ears.  
  
"Because you do not let me do this." Legolas said as he caressed her cheek. Jordan stiffened for a second before leaning into his warm hand; he gently angled her face up.  
  
*** Danger! Danger!! ** Her mind screamed, setting off alarm bells; Jordan's heart pressed the mute button as her body temperature soared another twenty degrees.  
  
"Nae saian luume' (it has been too long) since I've done this . . . " the Elf murmured before pressing his lips to hers in a soft yet insistent kiss.  
  
Jordan's head fell back, resting against the door as Legolas' tongue traced her lips; from her scalp to her toes, her entire body tingled from his touch. Her senses seemed heightened and her skin highly sensitized as his lips brushed hers.  
  
"Do you find me repulsive?" He asked as he nibbled her lips; his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he massaged her scalp.  
  
"Nooooo.." Jordan breathed; in his arms she felt like putty.  
  
Her arms encircled his neck of their own accord as they kissed; the Elf's lips trailed along her jaw and down to her neck. Opening her robe, Legolas slid it over her shoulders where it landed at her feet. Jordan's fingers fumbled clumsily with his tunic clasps before succeeding in undoing them; her fingers splayed out against his firm chest through the thin fabric of his inner tunic; she could feel his muscles flex and move like a living thing. Enfolding her in his arms, Legolas slowly turned her around, moving them closer to the bed as their tongues danced together.  
  
"Why do you deny what is between us?" Legolas asked between mind numbing kisses.  
  
"What exactly is between us, Legolas?" Jordan murmured against his smooth yet strong jaw; against her better judgment, she decided to play the Elf's game and see where it led.  
  
"We belong together." He said, his hands were much too distracting, as they traveled down her neck and down her arm.  
  
"It'd never work out . . . " Jordan breathed as she pulled his head down towards hers. The back of her knees hit the bed; holding onto Legolas' shoulders, Jordan continued to kiss the Elf. Drawing back from the woman, Legolas touched his forehead to hers.  
  
"Mankoi (why)?" the simple question was like a douse of cold water on Jordan's ardor. Looking at the Elf with her heart in her eyes, Jordan remained silent as Legolas waited for her reply; instead, she kissed him deeply, putting into it all her feeling, fear and desire for him. In answer, Legolas held her tight against him, the unmistakable bulge of his arousal hard and hot pressed against her. After a moment he held her away from him.  
  
"Your heart calls to mine, Melamin (my love). Why do you resist?" The flame of desire and something akin to anger burned in his bright gaze, mesmerizing her.  
  
"I don't belong here, Legolas. It's only a matter of time before I go home. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few weeks, maybe months. I know it-- I'll go home. Then what? Where does that leave us?" Jordan said.  
  
"Middle Earth or Rivendell could be your home if you choose. You have attempted to return, yet failed. Surely that proves you belong here." Legolas said.  
  
Jordan remained silent. Seeing the uncertainty in her eyes was enough for Legolas; satisfied that he'd accomplished at least one of his goals, the Elf didn't press her for an answer; instead, he kissed her until she responded, before breaking if off.  
  
Lifting her hands to his lips, he tenderly kissed the tips before releasing them. Jordan stared in disbelief as he turned to leave. Reaching the door, he stooped to pick up her discarded robe, and carefully laid it on a low stool nearby. His hand reached for the decorative door pull.  
  
"Quel kaima (sleep well), Jordan." Legolas said quietly before slipping outside; he closed the door softly behind him. Jordan stood, stunned with the turn of events. Hot and bothered, she almost called him back to finish what they started.  
  
"Oooooo!!" Instead, Jordan snatched a pillow off the bed and hurled it at the door with all her might. Despite the fire, the Immortal felt cold and bereft without his presence; it was as if the warmth left with the fair Elf. Frustrated in more ways than one, the Jordan sat down hard on the bed; staring at the door, she shook her head, before climbing between the sheets.  
  
Outside her door, Legolas refastened the clasps of his tunic, his fingers shaking. Walking gingerly the Elf needed several minutes to bring his body under control; it was very . . . uncomfortable having his member fully engorged and straining for release--which seemed to happen a lot when Jordan was around, or even with the mere thought of her. Rounding the corner that led back to the main hall-loud and clear-his keen sense of hearing registered Jordan's frustration and the thud of the pillow as it struck the door. Legolas smiled to himself as he stepped out into the night.  
  
========   
  
========   
  
Northern England  
Spencer Manor  
  
"Adam, it's been, what-years?" A man's soft, accented voice spoke.  
  
"Already? I've lost track; time flies, does it not?" Methos said.  
  
"You could say that." The disembodied voice answered.  
  
"How's your wife?"  
  
"Lovely as ever. To what do I owe this pleasure?" The curiosity was  
undisguised.  
  
"I need a favor. Video conference in fifteen minutes." Methos said, before ending the call.  
  
The Ancient Immortal tapped his cell phone lightly against his forehead then tossed it back onto the bedside table. Swiping his hands across his eyes, Methos stretched before quietly making his way to Duncan's office.  
  
A/N: For those of you wondering when/how J will tell L about her Immortality-patience, Grasshopper(s) (for my readers who may not understand, it's a reference to the character Kwai Chang Caine/D. Carradine in the 1970's U.S. T.V. show 'Kung Fu'.)! We'll get there..eventually (evil laugh). Thank you to everyone (signed/anonymous alike) who took the time to send feedback. Anyone interested in reading more about the Halcyon, you can find him @ Gerald Lamb's website. Please contact me @ I'll send you the link since it doesn't show up @ FF.N 


	14. Leave None Alive

Disclaimer: J.W. is mine, the others belong to their respective owners. Feedback appreciated, and as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
* * * WARNING * * * Contains violence, some gore; consider yourself warned.  
  
Leave None Alive  
  
" . . . Therefore, the important thing in doing battle is victory." --  
Sun Tzu/The Art of War  
  
Jordan lay in bed staring at the undulating shadows on the ornate ceiling high above her. To attempt sleep after Legolas'. . . 'visit' would be an exercise in futility. She threw back the bed sheets and sat up. She needed to work off some frustration.  
  
A part of the night detached itself; movement in the distance caught the attention of elven eyes. They followed the figure as it kept to the shadows, stealing across the wide, dark expanse of courtyard, until it disappeared into the tree line; the guards allowed the figure to reach its destination unimpeded.  
  
By moonlight, Jordan slowly picked her way through the dark woods. The sheltered glade had become her favorite retreat, no matter the time of day. . . or night. The cold night air chilled her clothes, leaching the warmth from her body. Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Jordan stood motionless; an occasional soft breeze stirred her dark hair and ruffled her tunic.  
  
~ ~ Never touch the blade. Always use the hilt. Take good care of it; there may be a time when it'll be the only friend you'll have. ~ ~ Duncan's admonition whispered in her mind.  
  
With a humorless grin, Jordan unsheathed her Katana, running her palm lightly above the cold blade, drawing strength from the familiar weapon. The Immortal raised her sword above her head; lowering herself into a deep stance, Jordan took a steadying breath, cleared her mind and began an intricate Kata.  
  
::: Mt. Fuji, Japan  
1947  
  
The sacred, conically shaped mountain's valley was blanketed in a  
thick mist; though it felt like days, the tiny village nestled near its base was left behind hours ago, as the fledgling Immortal and her Teacher hiked over thirty seven hundred meters. Wending their way up the steep mountainside, their ascent took them thru the low- lying clouds that surrounded the mountain's base and reached its mid point. Scaling the sullen seventy to eighty degree steep path was not easy, for it was liberally strewn with rocks of various sizes deposited by volcanic activity; other sections had generous heaps of loose gravel underfoot-or both.  
  
Trailing behind her Teacher, Jordan kept her head low as she trudged  
along, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other. The thin air made Jordan double her efforts to fill her lungs with oxygen. Exhausted, the young Immortal's resolution to keep pace with Duncan was rapidly disappearing; her arms and legs ached beyond description. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her teeth chattered as a cold wind began to blow.  
  
The single torch Duncan held aloft was the only point of light on the  
dark mountainside. Thankfully, the full moon was bright, helping to light the way. Jordan almost dropped her burden; she narrowly avoided colliding with the Highlander when he came to an abrupt halt. Duncan gazed out at the horizon. Black and gray nothingness stretched before them as far as the eye could see. Shrugging off his pack, Duncan instructed his student to sit and catch her breath while he studied the terrain, deciding the niche where they rested would serve as their 'classroom'. To one side of the path lay a large outcropping of boulders that acted as a windbreak.  
  
Sinking gratefully onto a dead tree stump, the torches Jordan carried  
clattered to the ground. With a groan, she leaned down and gathered them into a somewhat ordered pile. Accustomed to sweltering tropical heat, the unpredictable wind's determination to drive the cold into her very bones was a new and miserable experience for her; at least the effort of walking and hauling the torches up the mountainside kept her somewhat warm. Huddled into a ball, shoulders hunched, Jordan wrapped her arms tightly around herself, tucking her hands into her armpits in an effort to warm them. Like her, the Scot was clad in thin, loose fitting clothes, yet he appeared unaffected by the bitter cold.  
  
Jordan took the opportunity to observe her Teacher. Recently  
discharged from his military service, the elder Immortal's dark hair was long enough for him to tie in a short queue. Jordan stared sullenly at Duncan's back, not bothering to hide her expression when he looked back at her. She scowled as he winked at her. Gathering the torches, the Highlander set them alight, wedging several between heavy rocks; others were thrust into the ground, their pitiful lights shone bravely despite the whipping wind. Despite its effort, the wind failed to blow away the clouds. Several torches lost the battle with the elements, their lights flared in a final attempt to shine, before flickering out.  
  
"I c-can't feel my hands; what makes you think I can h-hold a sword?"  
Jordan complained. The chilly air seared her nose, making it painful to breathe.  
  
"I know what will help you." Duncan said.  
  
"A basin of saki?" Jordan asked hopefully.  
  
"You don't drink."  
  
"Right now, I'm willing to make an exception. If it'll warm me, I'll swim in it!"  
  
"Not if it'll cloud your mind, you won't! There's something even better than alcohol-Katas!" Duncan said cheerily. Jordan groaned in protest.  
  
"D-Duncan, can we do this when it w-warms up?" she plaintively asked,  
shivering violently.  
  
"You'll get warm. Once you get moving you won't notice --"  
  
"You're not the one whose f-freezing certain body p-parts off!" she interrupted heatedly.  
  
"As I was saying-once you get moving, you'll be fine. Mind over matter, Jordie. You can't let the elements distract you--especially during a challenge. Focus. You need to focus on one thing-and that's keeping your head. Now come on-let's go."  
  
Striding over to her, Duncan grasped Jordan by her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Briskly rubbing her upper arms, he gave her an encouraging smile.  
  
"One day you just might thank me, Jordie." He said softly.  
  
"For freezing me up here? I don't think s-so!" she retorted. Nevertheless, Jordan took her place beside him.  
  
Standing an arm's length from the Highlander, Jordan gritted her teeth against the cold; her movements jerky and rough in comparison to her Teacher's smooth, controlled gestures; she did her best to focus on muscle and breath control, a difficult task when you couldn't feel your fingers; during her attempt to hold a kick, a sudden gust of wind showered the pair with pine needles and nearly blew Jordan over. Determined to not put her foot down, Jordan's arms waved wildly; she took three small hops before recovering her balance. Stealing a glance at Duncan, she saw the twitch of his lips; the Highlander was unfazed by the gust, his balance perfect, his movements deliberate. The young Immortal bit back a scream of frustration as she resumed the pose. Eventually, Jordan's discomfort, though not totally forgotten, faded as she concentrated.  
  
While the Immortals' hands and bodies moved thru the lengthy and  
elaborate exercise, the dark sky slowly lightened to pale orange-pink, before giving way to glorious, intense combinations of blue, red, orange and yellow as the sun broke thru, rising above the clouds. Completing the final gesture of the Kata in unison with her Teacher, Jordan's movements were now controlled, though not quite as graceful as the Highlander's, as they returned to their original starting point. Before them the sun hovered, suspended between the cloud cover below and the Immortals above, as if it pausing for their viewing pleasure alone.  
  
"Rise and shine. . . " Jordan said, her voice soft. It was a  
breathtaking sight. The gentle warmth of the first rays of sunlight felt like a welcome caress to the thoroughly chilled student. Turning to her, the Highlander smiled.  
  
"They don't call Japan the 'Land of the Rising Sun' for nothing." He  
said. Beside him, Jordan nodded in agreement.  
"Now wasn't that worth getting up early for?" He asked. Jordan  
glowered at him. The Highlander grinned.  
  
"Duncan?" she said.  
  
"Hmmm?" he replied, looking at the magnificent sunrise.  
  
"I'm still cold." Jordan said. Truthfully, she was. However, the  
discomfort was bearable now, though she wasn't about to admit that to him.  
  
"No Immortal ever died of a chill, Jordie. Try not to think about it.  
Pretend you're back home." He suggested.  
  
"I already tried; it didn't work." She replied.  
  
"Do another Kata."  
  
"I don't feel like doing another one." She whined.  
  
Jordan was enjoying her childish game. Baiting her Teacher, though  
not necessarily wise, took her mind off the cold. She considered it payback for dragging her from her warm bed and taking her on what he said would be 'a moonlit stroll'; Duncan had distracted Jordan with interesting stories and anecdotes about his broad travels. By the time she caught on, it was too late to turn back. Jordan didn't know how to find the way back on her own, and her Teacher held their only source of reliable illumination, leaving her no choice but to follow.  
  
* * * 'Moonlit stroll - ha! * * * she snorted.  
  
It may have started as one, but soon turned into a 'death march'; when  
the climb became vertical, Jordan dubbed it the 'trail of tears'. Duncan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his patience beginning to wear thin. He counted to twenty before answering her.  
  
"Jordie, Katas can help you in more ways than you can possibly  
imagine. You'd do well to do them often. If you choose your battles wisely, you'll have plenty of time to probe the deeper meanings of each movement. Watch me."  
  
Jordan settled back onto her tree stump and tucked her hands back into  
her armpits. The wind was still for now, giving them a reprieve. Before her, Duncan began the Kata; for a large, muscular man, he moved with the grace and agility of a dancer, no doubt attributed to the many fighting styles he'd been exposed to - and learned thru the years; it was a pleasure to watch him. Unconsciously, Jordan found herself searching for the 'deeper meaning' hidden behind every gesture and nuance of hand and body.  
  
The Highlander's movements became faster, more explosive, dynamic,  
even frighteningly powerful. Jordan stared in awe, recognizing but not quite believing it was the same exercise they performed side by side; watching Duncan perform it solo, its significance changed. Slowly, she was beginning to understand what he meant. When he finished, Jordan looked at him thoughtfully, though she remained silent. Duncan raised an eyebrow.  
  
"You make it look easy." She finally commented.  
  
"You can do it too." He replied; she snorted in response.  
  
"It takes dedication, repetition and meditation. I didn't learn this  
over night." He said.  
  
"How long?" she asked. He looked at her, his head cocked to the side  
appraisingly.  
  
"A couple of centuries. And counting." He said.  
  
Jordan pursed her lips. She continued to think on the matter while she  
watched the clouds slowly recede, unveiling the horizon. The sun rose higher in the sky, the chill in the air starting to lose its bite and thankfully, the wind still gave them a reprieve.  
  
"The sword is your life. Here they call it the soul of the Samurai;  
you DO NOT go anywhere without your sword. If you go down, your sword goes down with you. Understand?" Duncan said.  
  
Reluctantly dragging her eyes from the sight before her, Jordan fixed  
her attention on her Teacher. He reached for his sword; unsheathing his Dragonhead Katana, Duncan held it just above the pommel; it balanced perfectly on his fingertip.  
  
" 'Those who live by the sword, die by the sword'." Jordan quoted.  
  
"True. I hope you'll not be on the receiving end of that proverb for centuries, Jordie. And to give you a fighting chance, you need to learn the finer points of swordplay. Observe."  
  
He quickly drew his sword, slicing the air as he spun. His movements  
were so fast that the very air seemed to hum. Duncan resheathed his Katana in a smooth, quiet movement; save for a three-foot radius where he stood, the pine needles blanketing the ground around him remained undisturbed.  
  
"The spirit, mind and body must be one." He said.  
  
Tossing his Katana to her blade first, Jordan leaped out of the way,  
landing in the dirt in an undignified heap. The sword was embedded in the stump, quivering.  
  
"What'd you do that for?" she asked, annoyed. Jordan climbed to her  
feet, dusting herself off.  
  
"Focus, Jordie. If you were paying attention, you could've caught it.  
Now get it and let's begin."  
  
Pulling Duncan's sword free, Jordan swung it around experimentally,  
adjusting her grip on the hilt. It was heavy to her. Reaching into his pack, Duncan pulled out a wooden sword carven to resemble a Katana. Trading swords, he motioned for her to take her place beside him. Jordan swung it around, getting a feel for the mock sword.  
  
"Once you truly understand your sword, it becomes an extension of your  
body. Fighting with your own weapon is definitely better. But, if that's not possible, you need to work with what you've got. Adaptation's the name, survival the game. Now, let's do it again." Swords in hand, the Immortals began the Kata again while the sun rose higher in the sky. : : : :  
  
After completing the Kata, Jordan felt much better - centered and capable of rational thought. . . at least for now; Jordan suspected if the Mirkwood Prince were with her, she'd be fighting for every ounce of self-control. She was still sorting out her feelings for the Elf. To say she was confused would be making an understatement. Just saying his name sent shivers down her spine. The Immortal frowned. Having been burned once was bad enough, and if she lived for centuries, no doubt it wouldn't be the last time, but that didn't mean she would knowingly play the fool again. Jordan wanted to go home; she couldn't afford any distractions, especially one named Legolas Greenleaf. Focus. That's what she needed to do.  
  
Jordan stood and resheathed her blade quietly, listening to the  
stillness of the night as she made her way back to her quarters. There would be plenty of time to think about Legolas - - - after the hunt. Changing into her sleep shift, she brushed her hair and crawled back into bed.  
  
"In more ways than I could imagine. You were right, Duncan." She murmured softly; before long, she drifted into sleep.  
  
= = = = = =   
  
Jordan indulged in a long bath before getting dressed. Although she slept, she did not feel wholly rested. Her thoughts dwelt on the forthcoming activities. Before her Immortality was triggered, bloodshed was not in Jordan's easygoing nature; the Game, she mused, made it a necessary and sometimes distasteful act. In the overall scheme of things, it was and always would be a simple matter of survival.  
  
"Those . . . 'creatures' deserve nothing but death." She muttered to herself, rubbing her throat in memory.  
  
Buttoning her vest, Jordan sat on a chair and quickly plaited her hair into two French braids, securing the ends with slender leather cords she found in a drawer. Reaching for her boots, she pulled them on then buckled her weapons around her waist, adjusting her Katana before slipping into her overcoat. Making sure her shurikens were secure, Jordan slung the satchel filled with Lembas, bandages, salves and other Elvish medicines over her shoulder.  
  
Eyeing the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, Jordan instead reached for the Lembas in a covered dish and broke off a healthy piece to nibble on the way out. She pivoted sharply, her overcoat snapping smartly against her heels as she descended the balcony steps. The Immortal arrived in the main courtyard to find the hunting party already assembled, checking the last minute details. Looking around, she noticed some Elves were armed with long spears and swords; slender, curved knives of varying lengths were strapped to their bodies as well, the blades adorned with ornate etchings that shone brightly in the early morning light.  
  
Close by, archers warmed their bowstrings, testing the draw weight. The quivers on their back were full; extra arrows were in a separate quiver ingeniously strapped to their thighs, in a way that allowed access without limiting movement. It was bizarre to see these fabled creatures outfitted for battle; under their gentle natures was an obvious capacity for violence and warfare. Were these the same beings that sang so marvelously and danced ever so gracefully just days ago? Shaking her head, Jordan couldn't quite reconcile the image of the beautiful, elegant beings so dangerously armed. She was still pondering the thought when she felt a touch on her arm.  
  
"Jordan, you're up at this blasted hour too, eh?" Gimli's blustery voice sounded at her elbow. Dressed in his gear, he looked every inch the fierce warrior, his axes gleaming in the early light.  
  
"As you are, Master Gimli. What's the game plan?" Her eyes twinkled at him. At his look of confusion, she clarified herself. "How are we going to do this? Are we riding out or going on foot?"  
  
"We're to walk to the areas the scouts sighted Orcs."  
  
"Is Legolas going with us?" She asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant. The Dwarf looked at her, his eyes shrewd.  
  
"Nay, Lassie, he left late last night with the other scouts. They sent word on where to go, and that's where we're headed." Jordan nodded, absorbing that piece of information.  
  
Silhouetted in his westward facing window, Elrond observed the gathering below, his eyes resting on the woman. Glancing up, Jordan met and held his gaze. She touched her heart and forehead in a gesture of respect. The Elven Lord nodded in return; at his signal, the assembly silently headed towards the borders of Rivendell.  
  
As planned, five of the ten elves took to the trees, the rest fanned out, noiselessly moving thru the forest floor. Making their way thru the wooded area, Jordan knew it would be a good day for battle, for the ground was dry, the sky above cloudless. It wasn't long before they encountered a handful of Orcs. The miserable creatures gave a worthy struggle, but were no match for the Elven warriors or their lethal arrows.  
  
The Elves piled the carcasses in a heap. Jordan watched as they went about their grisly task; silently, the archers collected spent arrows before beheading the creatures for good measure. Lunch was eaten on the run; Jordan wasn't the only one who thought to pack Lembas, for the Elves brought it out from their tunic pockets, unwrapping and breaking off pieces to eat. With a conspiratal wink, Gimli brought out dried meat, passing her three long strips.  
  
They continued in that fashion for the duration of the day, encountering and eliminating pockets of Orcs, the tree-born Elves rotated with the ground team. Given the advantage of advance information and the element of surprise, Jordan was beginning to think it would be a relatively simple task of extermination; at the rate they were going, she believed they'd surely make it back before mid night. It was towards dusk when it all changed.  
  
Suddenly, shouts of warning came from the trees as arrows flew towards them from all directions, landing in the ground and trees with a thud; several whizzed past Jordan. She quickly reversed her satchel, using it as a makeshift shield as she scrambled for cover. Nimbly dodging the deadly projectiles, the archers on foot lobbed off a return volley of their arrows into the shifting shadows, as the nightmarish forms of Orcs and what must be the Uruk-hai swarmed towards them. With a growl of anticipation, Gimli rushed to meet them. From behind the protection of a tree, Jordan again reversed her satchel and peeked out at the ruckus.  
  
* * * There's so many . . ! * * * Gathering her courage, Jordan drew her Katana and stepped forward into the fray.  
  
* * * Oh boy, here we go . . ! * * * she thought. Adrenalin coursed  
through Jordan's veins. She was about to join the Dwarf, when from the corner of her eye, she saw an Elf go down, a black- shafted arrow protruding from his left shoulder.  
  
Keeping her head low as she ran to him, Jordan dragged him to a sheltering copse of bushes. Willing them to be invisible, she kept a watchful eye on the melee surrounding them as she shrugged off the satchel, searching for the salve that would stop the spread of poison and staunch the bleeding. The Elf's jaw was clenched tight against the pain, his breathing shallow and rapid. All around them, the fierce cries of battle rent the air.  
  
"My Lady--"  
  
"Shhhh-what's your name?"  
  
"Maeglin Lossëhelin" Jordan raised an eyebrow at the unusual name, but continued to work.  
  
"Well, Maeglin, I'm Jordan-bite down!!"  
  
Kneeling over him, she stuffed an herb filled sachet in his mouth, the anesthetizing vapors released as he bit down; lines of pain were etched in the Elf's noble face, a sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow; Jordan gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Working swiftly, she cut away his tunic and examined the wound, relieved to see the arrowhead jutting from his back; the Elf's bright red blood coated the black shaft. On the arrowhead itself was a thick, oily substance that Jordan didn't like the look of. Keeping him on his side, with a swift stroke of her sword, she cut the arrow, leaving half an inch of the shaft above the wound. To his credit, the Elf didn't move. Jordan looked at Maeglin; he gave a quick nod, his hands clutched the scabbard of his sword.  
  
"I'm sorry. Hang on." She said.  
  
Jordan grasped the arrow carefully, quickly pulling it out; the Elf's body lurched in pain. Smearing the entry and exit sides of the wound with salve, she covered them with a bandage; she was reaching for more bandages when a roar made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand. Looking up, the largest, most hideous creature beyond her wildest nightmares was striding towards them, a lethal looking spear in its hand. Legolas' and Gimli's description of the improved version of Orc didn't do it justice; it had to be at least seven feet tall, heavily muscled, and no doubt about it, bent on utter destruction.  
  
* * * Oh. No. . ! * * * she thought.  
  
Jordan needed both hands free. Laying Maeglin on his back, she applied pressure to bandage on the Elf's wound with her knee while she readied her shurikens. Below her, the Elf gasped in pain when she inadvertently dug into his wound. Jordan spared him a quick glance.  
  
"Sorry about that - - here, press down on this." She said, placing the Elf's right hand on the bandage. He struggled to raise himself on his left elbow.  
  
"Don't move! Your bandages aren't secured." She snapped. Obediently,  
the Elf lay back down. Jordan turned her attention back to the Uruk-Hai.  
  
~ ~ ~ Their armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arm . . . ~ ~  
~ Legolas' words came back to her.  
  
Eyes narrowed in concentration, she calmly waited until the creature  
was ten paces away; its muscled arm drew back, preparing to skewer them; aiming for it's unprotected throat, Jordan threw four shurikens as hard as she could in quick succession. The Uruk-hai dropped the spear as it fell to its knees with a pig-like squeal. Out of nowhere, an arrow appeared in the creature's throat. Keeping an eye on it, she hurriedly bound Maeglin's wound.  
  
"My Lady, is he safe to move?" An archer dropped from the trees, providing cover for her as she tied a knot on the bandage.  
  
"Hurry-before I have to do the same for you. Get him out of here!" Quickly stuffing the contents back into the satchel, Jordan slipped it on.  
  
Sword in hand, she kept watch, making sure no creature interfered with the evacuation as the Elf lifted Maeglin to another waiting in the trees. Looking up, she saw they were gone. Going to the Uruk-hai, Jordan sheathed her sword and quickly retrieved her shurikens, wiping them on her overcoat hem as she surveyed the battle.  
  
A short distance away, Gimli and other Elves were making short work of the Orcs foolish enough to attack them, yet more of the fell creatures seemed to take their place. All around her the bodies of Orcs and Uruk-hai were strewn about the forest floor. Looking around, Jordan saw an Elf among the carnage; hurrying to him, she crouched at his side. There was nothing she could do for him; he'd been disemboweled, his sightless eyes gazing up at the sky above. Immortal but not invulnerable. With great sadness, Jordan closed his eyes, angered that one of these beautiful beings died. A quick glance around showed her the battle was still raging.  
  
Before she could stand, an Orc literally stumbled upon her. Raising a wicked looking dagger, it sprang towards her, fanged mouth open in anticipation of the kill. Jordan's sticks materialized in her hands-all organized thought ceased as her training kicked in. It's dagger swooped down, stopping mere inches from her face, caught in the crux of her sticks as she brought them up; her arms trembling with the effort of keeping it at bay as the Orc tried to press it home.  
  
* * *Damn they're strong! * * * She grudgingly admitted.  
  
Above her sticks, their eyes locked; he was so close she could smell his rancid breath. With a grimace of disgust, Jordan used her legs to propel herself to a standing position, pushing the Orc back and away; the creature sprang towards her, dagger poised for another stab. With her sticks, she caught the dagger in the crux again, wrenching it from the Orc's grasp with a quick twist. Bringing her leg up, she kneed it in the groin. The creature clutched itself, shrieking in pain and fury.  
  
Holding her sticks as a bat, Jordan swung as hard as she could; it connected with a satisfying crunch. The Orc's jaw shattered from the blow as it landed facedown on the ground with a howl. Dropping to one knee, Jordan scooped up its fallen dagger, plunging it deep into the back of its neck, giving it a vicious twist. It's spinal cord severed. The Immortal watch detachedly as it jerked spastically before laying still.  
  
Attracted by the commotion, another Orc came towards Jordan. Ignoring it's fallen companion, it barreled towards her, intent on the seemingly easy target. Standing her ground, Jordan waited. Hissing, it circled her; Jordan warily tracked it, her sticks held in readiness, her eyes studying the subtle nuances of the Orc's movements. It swung its scimitar at Jordan, quickly stepping back beyond her sticks' reach when she countered his attack. It continued to bait her--striking, then backing away, attacking from different angles.  
  
* * It's toying with me! * * * she realized, incredulous.  
  
* * * He's smarter than he looks! * * *  
  
With alarming swiftness, the Orc lunged at her, swinging his scimitar at her torso. She leaped back, hearing the whoosh! as it passed. Before the Orc could complete the arc of it's swing, Jordan went on the offensive, stepping towards it. Trapping the Orc's wrist with her sticks, she pulled him closer to her, immediately countering his attack with a simultaneous stick strike to his neck; stunned, it faltered, dropping its weapon. With her left foot, Jordan delivered a crippling kick, knocking it's right knee out of alignment; she pinned it's knee to the ground with her foot as she followed up with another stick strike to the jaw and a swift and hard knee kick to the throat, breaking its jaw and crushing it's windpipe. As it fell to the ground, Jordan kicked it in the throat again for good measure, before turning and running away, leaving it to suffocate to death.  
  
Locking her sticks into a bo as she ran, Jordan hadn't gone far when she tripped on a hidden tree root. Sprawled ignominiously in the dirt face first, her bo lay just beyond her reach.  
  
* * Yep, 'Grace' is my middle name * * * she chided herself, glad Duncan didn't witness this moment-he'd never let her live it down. Coughing, she pushed herself on to her knees, reaching for her staff; it slipped from her fingers as she was lifted roughly by the collar of her overcoat.  
  
* * * This can't be good * * * she thought dismally. A sense of déjà vu came over her as she looked at the creature that held her suspended. This time it was an Uruk-hai  
  
* * * Why does this always happen to me? * * *  
  
Thinking fast, Jordan spat out the dirt that was in her mouth into the  
Uruk's eyes, distracting it. Quickly lifting her arms straight up, she slid out of her overcoat and landed on her feet in a crouch, leaving the momentarily confused Uruk-hai with the empty garment.  
  
~ ~ ~ The faster you draw your sword, the more precise your cuts, the surer your chance of victory. ~ ~ ~ Duncan's words whispered in her mind.  
  
From her angle, she could see an opening where the breastplate fell away from his torso. Seizing the opportunity, Jordan swiftly drew her Katana and sprung at him, using the force of her momentum. She ran the creature thru with her sword, her blade sinking into its flesh with surprisingly little resistance. Yanking her Katana out, Jordan whirled, her blade flashing. Flicking the foul blood from her blade, she resheathed it and bent down to retrieve her overcoat. The Uruk's head fell away from its shoulders, its face frozen in a surprised snarl as its body thudded forward. Jordan adjusted her collar; using the toe of her boot, she flipped her bo up in the air, catching it neatly.  
  
Taking a moment to get her bearings, Jordan spied an Orc stab an Elf in the side; unlocking and holstering her sticks, she ran towards them full tilt. The Orc was about to deal a deathblow to the fallen Elf. She wouldn't get there in time. Jordan reached for her stars; taking careful aim, she quickly threw them as hard as she could. They buried themselves in the Orc's arm and hand. It was enough to divert the killing blow; with a screech, the Orc turned to meet Jordan-then lost its head. Falling to her knees before the Elf, she quickly set to work.  
  
"Whew, almost didn't make it in time! Anyways, thought you could use some help. Don't believe we've met. I'm Jordan." The Elf blinked at the woman hovering above him as she chattered breathlessly.  
  
"Your timing is most welcome. I am Camthalion Tasardur, Lady Jordan. And thank you." He gasped; his smile was more of a grimace as a wave of pain washed over him. Jordan could see the dark spot on his brown tunic grow larger.  
  
She used her sword to slit his tunic apart, keeping a calm expression on her face as she assessed his wound: bright red blood oozed from the puncture wound, the uneven rise and fall of his chest; reaching for his hand, she felt his wrist. The Elf's pulse was rapid; he was starting to wheeze, his breathing grew labored, and his lips had a slight bluish tinge. Not good. Glancing at his eyes, she was glad to see they were still clear. Checking to see if there was blood pooling beneath him, her concern grew when there was none. Worried about possible internal bleeding, Jordan applied salve and a pressure dressing on the wound, binding it with more bandages. Already blood was starting to seep through.  
  
* * * Punctured lung * * * Jordan thought grimly. As if in answer, the Elf coughed weakly. She looked up into the trees, immensely relieved to see the same Elves from the previous evacuation making their way towards her.  
  
* * Here comes the cavalry! * * * She thought. Jordan gave the Elf's  
hand a squeeze.  
  
"Get the lead out, guys! Let's go!" she called. She looked at  
Camthalion.  
  
"Here comes your ride out, Camthalion. Don't you die on my watch!"  
she said fiercely, touching his cool cheek. The Elf's face was pale, yet his eyes were still bright.  
  
"I will . . . do my best . . . not to. . . Lady." He whispered with a  
smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, Jordan smiled back. The Elves dropped lightly to the ground, helping the wounded Elf onto his feet.  
  
"Quickly-take him to Læurenthail! Run!" Though her voice was low, the  
urgency was unmistakable.  
  
Glad to see them gone, Jordan retrieved her stars and was en route to join Gimli when five Orcs surrounded her. Advancing on her with their weapons drawn, their snarling and hissing made the hair on her arms stand. Eyes narrowed, Jordan took out her sticks, locking them. Whirling it slowly to get the proper balance, she tracked their positions; Jordan spun her bo with lightning speed around her, then struck a hard fighting stance, noticing their heads were bare. She smiled. Intimidated, the Orcs hesitated for a second before leaping upon her as one.  
  
Staff spinning, she stayed safely out of their weapons' reach, keeping them at bay as she parried and blocked their thrusts, her bo dealing more than its fair share of hurt as it solidly connected with Orc flesh numerous times. The Immortal's flowing spins, slashing staff strikes and arching kicks gave her the appearance of a wind devil. Snarling, the creatures were forced to keep their distance, unable to reach her.  
  
Jordan drove the end of her staff into the ground; hoping her weight didn't break the locking mechanism, she used it to launch herself into the Orc in front of her with a hard front kick. She felt her heel connect solidly with the Orc's lower jaw, his head rearing back.  
  
Changing her grip on the staff, Jordan used the ends to give the Orc two quick and solid whacks across the temples, then used all her weight to bring it down hard on his skull; the sound of bone shattering filled the air as the Orc spun and landed on the ground, unmoving. Another Orc soon took its place. Without hesitation, she planted the end of her staff in the dirt; her left leg lashed out in a spinning sidekick as she brought her bo crashing against the Orc's jaw, whipping its head to the side. With a quick jab, she ran the tapered end thru its neck. It fell to the ground, rolling in agony, a gaping hole in its throat.  
  
Dropping to one knee, Jordan threw two stars at the Orc closest to her. It clutched it's neck; dark blood bubbled around the shuriken edges, the creature fell to the ground, it's foul blood rhythmically staining the dirt beneath with each beat of it's heart. Leaping to her feet, she spun her staff around her, the two remaining Orcs snarled their frustration, unable to get close to her. They feinted and retreated, circling--trying to disrupt her focus.  
  
Deciding she had enough, Jordan lunged at the closer Orc, pushing him back with the end of her bo. It grabbed her staff, and tenaciously hung on. Behind her, the other Orc rushed her back. Using her bo to jerk the Orc towards her, with a quick, hard thrust, she pushed it back, and let go; the unexpected maneuver threw the Orc off balance as she dropped onto her knee and pulled her Katana out; pivoting on her knee, she brought her blade up in a high, wide arc, beheading the Orc behind her.  
  
Instinctively diving to the side, a 'whoosh' rent the air where her head was a second ago; she rolled and leapt to her feet. The remaining Orc stood, her staff in its hand. Snarling, it hurled the staff at her like a spear, barely in time, Jordan threw herself to the side, the staff missing her by inches.  
  
* * * Too close for comfort! * * * Scowling, Jordan faced the Orc.  
  
The creature picked up a hooked sword from it's fallen companion. Brandishing it with a scream akin to nails on a chalkboard, it ran towards Jordan. Fanning her blade, Jordan gripped her Katana firmly with both hands, and rushed to meet him, their blades ringing with a reverberating clang as they met, each trying to gain the advantage over the other with brute force, yet for the moment were evenly matched.  
  
"I will eat your heart while you watch!" It snarled. Surprised the Orc was capable of speech, Jordan's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Sorry, my heart's already taken---and its definitely not by you!" she retorted. The Orc's sword pressed closer. Suddenly, its dark tongue snaked out, wriggling obscenely.  
  
"I will taste you first!" it leered. A look of revulsion crossed the Immortal's face.  
  
"You gonna fight, or talk? Doesn't matter, this conversation's over!" Jordan declared.  
  
Gritting her teeth, she brought her right knee up, driving it into its groin, then swiftly hooked her right foot behind his leg, causing it to stumble back. The sword slid from its grasp as its arms pin wheeled, staggering back. It had the presence of mind to backhand the Immortal. Instinctively, she turned her head to avoid the brunt of the blow, but not before the Orcs clawed hand left four deep scratches across her face.  
  
"That was your last mistake." She said, her voice low. In answer, the Orc snarled defiantly.  
  
Jordan kicked his feet out from under him; driving her sword down, she pinned the creature to the ground. The Orc's hands scrabbled uselessly against her blade. Wrenching her blade free, the Immortal brought it down on the creature's neck, relieving it of its head in one smooth stroke. Jordan flicked its dark blood from her Katana. Breathing hard, she wiped away the sweat from her forehead and neck, gingerly touching her stinging cheek as she looked around and gathered her shurikens. Elves were busy holding their own, their gleaming blades flashing; she spied Gimli in the midst of a cluster of Orcs,  
  
Flying high on adrenalin, Jordan fought her way towards the Dwarf, protecting his back as more creatures converged on them.  
  
"Where've you been, Lass?" the Dwarf asked, swinging his double-headed axe at an Orc's head.  
  
"Oh, here and there." Jordan panted.  
  
"Plenty to go around, there is!" Gimli said. He jabbed the face of an Orc with the end of his axe before slicing its neck open. Jordan wiped her forehead on her sleeve and brought her blade up to block a blow from an Orc. Jordan saw the Dwarf do a quick double take when he glanced at her face.  
  
"Do you think I'm ugly, Gimli?" Jordan joked, dodging a thrust to her side.  
  
"You're as comely as the day I first saw you, Lass." Jordan laughed, for she was doing the same thing when they first met-fighting Orcs; she wasn't looking her best then, and she was certain she looked a fright now.  
  
"You sweet talker you!" she exclaimed. Ducking beneath a blade, Jordan the hilt of her sword to punch the Orc in the face and quickly reversed her grip to slice its head off.  
  
"Fight now, talk later, Lass!"  
  
The Immortal and the Dwarf fought back to back for what seemed an interminable amount of time; in the heat of battle, Jordan didn't notice she was moving away from Gimli. Wanting to put as much distance between the Orcs and herself, Jordan changed weapons. Swinging her staff around, Jordan swept the legs of an Orc out from under him, then stabbed the creature thru the eye with the tapered end. Pressing her full weight on the staff, Jordan took a moment to catch her breath. An Elf and an Orc swept by her as they skirmished; pulling her staff free, she threw a star with her free hand. The Orc tensed in pain as the shuriken buried itself in the side of its thick neck. It was all the Elf needed to end its existence.  
  
Jordan's hand was poised to throw another star when warning bells in her gut made her head turn, her braids flying; her left bicep stung with a sudden, intense pain as she heard a loud thwack, thwack, thwack! uncomfortably close in the tree behind her. Hearing Gimli yell her name, she stepped towards him when she was jerked back, her staff falling to the ground. She couldn't move. Realizing the sounds were that of arrows landing in the trees behind her, she saw with alarm two had pinned her overcoat and sleeve to the tree, the third skewered one of her braids.  
  
* *Awwww hell!* * * she thought to herself.  
  
At Gimli's shout, she looked up to see an Uruk-hai walking towards her. Confident she was held in place, he leveled his crossbow in line with her heart. Time slowed-everything moved in surrealistic slow motion around her, when she heard thunk!  
  
"Move, woman!" the Dwarf roared.  
  
Time snapped back into place, sound returned in a rush. Spurred into action, Jordan lunged forward out of her overcoat, and not a moment too soon, as another thwack! sounded. Rolling to a crouch, her eyes went to the arrow that would've pierced her heart. Until she found her way back, her clothes and weapons were all she had of home.  
  
"Dirty bastard-that was an ARMANI!" Infuriated, she leaped to her feet, her hands a blur as she threw her remaining shurikens. One landed deep in its cheek, another in its neck, missing the artery; the rest were buried in the Uruk's thick leather armor and muscled arms; unfazed, it stared curiously at the stars buried in its chest and biceps. Dropping its crossbow, the creature casually picked the shurikens out one by one, before easily crumpling them in its heavy fist like foil. Jordan gasped in disbelief.  
  
"Hey!" she shouted. The Uruk gave a harsh guttural laugh, if one could call it such.  
  
Touching a clawed finger to its check, it licked the dark blood then plucked the star out. Studying it, the Uruk's malevolent eyes narrowed before snapping to Jordan. Not waiting to see what it'd do, she pulled out her Katana, clutching it with both hands and ran at the Uruk-hai; quicker than she believed it was capable of moving, it threw the star. Ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder, Jordan willed her left hand to tighten its slack grip on the blade as it flashed once, twice, leaving the Uruk without its forearms. The Uruk roared its pain and fury.  
  
Unwilling to cede defeat, its thick leg lashed out, kicking Jordan in the gut. Caught off guard, she flew back, her sword still clutched in her hand. Jordan's head thudding painfully against the hard ground; she stared up at the sky above, the wind knocked out of her. Unable to draw a full breath, she fought the rising panic.  
  
~ ~ ~ Mind over matter, Jordie. . . ~ ~ ~ she could almost see Duncan's face, his dark eyes intense.  
  
Hyperventilating, she struggled to her feet. Doubled over, clutching her abdomen, Jordan straightened with difficulty. She glared at the Uruk-hai, who was striding towards her, ready to give her another kick. This time she was ready. Mentally blocking the throbbing pain in her gut, somewhere from deep within, Jordan summoned the energy to execute a spin kick, planting her heel in its face - - quite a feat, considering the disparity in height between the combatants. The Uruk dropped heavily to the ground.  
  
"I guess you won't be doing that again, will you?" she said in a harsh whisper, looking down at the creature; it rolled onto its side, struggling to stand.  
  
"You will die!" the Uruk sneered at her over its shoulder.  
  
"Not today. By the way, I owe you." She replied. The Immortal kicked him in the gut; the Uruk laughed at her.  
  
Jordan kicked him harder in the ribs. This time, the Uruk flipped onto its back, panting. She planted her boot in its chest, holding it firmly in place. The Uruk's bleeding arm stumps beat impotently against her leg, his lower body writhing in an effort to dislodge her.  
  
"Let me up and I may let you live!" the Uruk demanded. Jordan gave a bark of laughter at his ludicrous words.  
  
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Jordan said sweetly, drawing the tip her Katana slowly across its throat. His next words were lost in a wet gurgle.  
  
Jordan watched unemotionally while the Uruk's life ebbed away; it took a few moments for her to realize the din of battle was dying. Although the fight seemed to last a lifetime, in reality it must have been a few minutes, she realized. A sharp pain caught her attention. Looking down, the shuriken thrown by the Uruk was buried halfway in her left shoulder. Though her vest covered the bloodstain, she could feel the sticky wetness beneath. Making her way to a tree, she leaned heavily against it. Swallowing hard, Jordan gingerly grasped the star, wincing at the pain it elicited. Gritting her teeth, she counted to three and quickly pulled it out, biting her tongue to stifle her scream of pain.  
  
"Damn that hurt!" she muttered aloud, looking at the blood stained star. Wincing, she gently probed the wound before taking a peek beneath her vest; already her Quickening had stopped the bleeding; unfortunately, this wound was too deep for it to heal instantaneously; it'd be at least several hours for it to fully heal.  
  
"I should've taken more heads." She mumbled wearily to herself.  
  
Experimentally, she moved her arm. Now that the crisis was over, the aches were manifesting themselves. Jordan was able to lift her arm halfway before the pain stole her breath. Favoring her injured shoulder, she pushed away from the tree and straightened cautiously.  
  
* * * Can't have any questions. * * * she thought. With her right hand, Jordan curled the fingers of her left hand around the hilt of her Katana.  
  
Breathing heavily, she looked around her; Elves were putting the creatures that hadn't yet expired out of their misery; some were helping those with minor injuries to walk. Others were retrieving arrows and wiping their soiled weapons, the dead were placed on litters constructed of fallen tree limbs, their branches woven to support their burdens, to be borne away by able-bodied Elves.  
  
Numbly, she walked to the tree, surveying the damage. Her overcoat was in a sorry state. Streaked with grass stains, dirt and Orc blood, the once flowing designer fabric was now pierced with arrows; she could see the tree bark thru the long, gaping tears. Jordan sighed.  
  
Gimli's small throwing axe was embedded in the tree as well, her unraveling braid dangling from an arrow. Angrily she yanked it out, releasing it; holding the severed locks in her hand, she measured the loss of twelve inches of hair, before tucking it inside her vest; she ran her hand absently thru her shortened hair, shaking it lightly; twigs, leaves and dirt rained down; her hair now reached the middle of her shoulder blade.  
  
* * * It'll grow back. As for the Armani.maybe the Elves can repair it. * * * So absorbed in her thoughts, Jordan didn't notice Gimli stood by her side until he spoke.  
  
"At least you're still alive, Lassie." The Dwarf said gruffly.  
  
"It took me two years to grow it out. Couldn't you have aimed closer to the arrow, Gimli?" The Dwarf looked at her with an incredulous expression. The twitching of her lips gave away the laughter she now felt inside, glad to be alive, and that the Elven casualties weren't numerous; it could have been worse.  
  
"I needed a hair cut anyways, it was getting too long." After a look of surprise at her change in mood, Gimli gave a shout of laughter; Jordan joined him, tears streaming from her eyes, as Legolas appeared before her.  
  
========  
  
Backtracking from River Loudwater, Legolas and the other scouts regrouped, en route to the outskirts of Rivendell. Surely the Valar had smiled down on them, for their mission was a success. Under cover of night, they had sighted several parties of both Orc and Uruk-Hai, eliminating them with ruthless efficiency, no easy feat considering the Orcs were creatures of the night; other groups were monitored and tracked, allowed to move closer to the Elven haven. As the night turned into day, the scouts slipped quietly thru the foliage, keeping pace with their quarry, tightening the net. The group they were currently shadowing was at least eighty strong; when the time was right, the trap was sprung. Arrows rained down on the fell creatures; Legolas estimated fifty managed to escape, and were heading towards the ground team. Two scouts ran ahead to warn them, the rest continued to mete out death. Knowing Gimli wouldn't let harm come to Jordan, he and the other Elves continued with their grim task. After ensuring none were alive, they swiftly made their way towards the ground team, who were on the verge of being overwhelmed.  
  
As the Valar would have it, their timing was perfect. He spotted Gimli with Elves at his back, holding their own. Legolas' concern grew for Jordan.  
  
* *Where is she?! * * *  
  
His sharp eyes searched the combatants until he saw her slender form dart out and drag an injured Elf towards a clump of bushes, his arrows picking off Orcs that posed a threat to the rescue attempt. Momentarily out of arrows, his face drained of color as he saw an Uruk making it's way toward her, a spear poised. Running in the trees towards her, his knives ready to throw, he saw Jordan kill the Uruk with her shurikens, then the creature was pierced with an arrow, from Elves in the trees above, providing protection for her and the wounded one.  
  
He needed to replenish his quiver. Landing lightly on the ground, he swiftly gathered arrows from the dead on the forest floor, killing Orcs and Uruks that dare move in her direction. Legolas lost sight of Jordan when she darted off in another direction. He continued to work his way towards where he saw her last, his progress delayed by several Elves needing his swift and deadly assistance. Legolas was momentarily engaged with three Orcs when he heard Gimli shout in warning to her. Hurriedly killing his foes, he continued towards her; what he saw next almost made his heart stop. Jordan was pinned to a tree by arrows, a large Uruk advancing upon her.  
  
*Nooo!*  
  
Horrified, he sprinted towards them when he saw Jordan on the ground. She leapt to her feet, her sword drawn, then suddenly, the Uruk's forearms fell to the ground, but not before he kicked her away. A white-hot rage overcame him. The Uruk made a grave mistake. However, retribution was not his to give. Staggering to her feet, the Uruk was about to put his boot in her again when Jordan executed a most extraordinary kick before pinning the creature to the ground. Legolas came to a halt on the periphery, far enough to be unnoticed, close enough to let fly an arrow.  
  
He saw Jordan slowly draw her sword across its throat, watching her watch the Uruk bleed before she stumbled away to lean against a tree. Something niggled at the back of the Elf's mind. An assassin himself, he killed when necessary, most times without compunction. To see this mortal, a woman no less - - do the same, gave him slight pause. Already the battle was over, the forest eerily silent, save for the squeals and coughs of Orcs and Uruk- Hai in their death throes. Gimli was at Jordan's side; Legolas went to join them, questions swirling in his mind.  
  
======== ========  
  
Legolas quickly clasped the Dwarf's shoulder in greeting and relief at his safety. Turning to the woman, Legolas gently but firmly gripped her chin in his smooth fingers, inspecting her face. Despite the deep scrapes on her cheek, forehead chin and nose, and the dirt and Orc blood smeared on her face, she never looked more beautiful to him. Releasing her, he stepped back; the Elf's eyes surveyed the scene: Jordan's dirty, tired face, the partially dismembered Uruk; his sapphire gaze settled on her overcoat hanging on the tree.  
  
Legolas' eyes narrowed as he took in the nasty gash on her left upper arm. When he reached to examine the wound on her shoulder, Jordan twisted away.  
  
"Its just a flesh wound." She said, keeping her tone light, avoiding his piercing gaze.  
  
"Tis more than that, Jordan." Legolas said quietly. Jordan blinked. Did nothing escape this Elf?  
  
Jordan's eyes widened in surprise when Legolas placed his hands on her shoulders; he turned her this way and that, ignoring her indignant protests as his hands roamed over every inch of her body, checking for other injuries. The Dwarf raised an eyebrow, discretely coughing and smiling behind his gloved hand. Satisfied with his inspection, Legolas stepped back.  
  
"I'll be fine. Are you quite done?" she asked, hoping to distract him.  
  
Forcing herself to meet and hold his eyes, Jordan's chin raised slightly. Legolas said nothing; instead, the Elf's bright eyes slid down her body; he noticed she was careful to keep her right side towards him.  
  
Without her outer garb, Jordan's clothes left nothing of her form to the imagination. Her white undertunic was molded to the swell of her bosom and waist by a form fitting leather bodice; rough black leggings revealed all contours of her legs, hugged the gentle flare of hip and a nicely rounded backside, clung to her shapely calves before disappearing into knee length boots. Her body reminded him of a slender hourglass.  
  
A peculiar expression crossed his face. He frowned, a surge of possessiveness welled up. Legolas certainly did not want others seeing her form as well. Unbuckling his quiver and knives, Legolas shrugged them off and thrust them into Gimli's hands, then leaned his tall bow against the startled Elf-Friend. The Elf unclasped his cloak and settled it around Jordan's shoulders, arranging the folds to completely cover her before fastening it at her neck, ignoring Jordan's questioning gaze.  
  
Legolas looked at her, his head cocked to the side. Oddly, the right side of her hair was still braided, but the left side had come undone and was noticeably shorter than the other.  
  
"What happened to your hair?" Legolas asked. Jordan and Gimli looked at each other before bursting into laughter at the Elf's puzzled expression.  
  
========  
  
Legolas paused, listening; excusing himself from the Dwarf, he walked to Jordan, who was sitting on the ground, her back against a tree. Wordlessly, he handed her the small bundle. She accepted it with a smile of thanks. Looking inside, her stars lay, crushed and twisted beyond recognition. She stuffed it into her mangled overcoat's pocket, not having the energy to deal with it. Instead, she studied the Elf, who was quietly conversing with Gimli. Judging from his relaxed posture, Jordan could tell he wasn't expecting trouble. The muffled thunder of hoof beats could be heard. Riding bareback, several scouts had returned with spare horses in tow; among them was Legolas' noble steed. Spying his Elven master, Arod trotted to his side, tossing his mane and neighing in greeting.  
  
"Wow. Did you train him to do that?" she asked.  
  
"Arod permits me to ride him because he is my friend." Legolas explained, extending his hand to her, pulling her to her feet.  
  
For once, Jordan was glad to ride a horse. She just wasn't up to the long walk back to Rivendell. Mindful of her injuries, Legolas gently lifted Jordan upon Arod, before helping Gimli up on a brown gelding, securing the reins to Arod. The other Elves had doubled up, and were quickly borne away by their steeds. Gracefully leaping up behind Jordan, the Elf settled himself and gathered the reins; he spoke softly to the horse. Arod tossed his head and took off in a smooth canter.  
  
Riding along beside them, Gimli recounted his part in the battle, filling Legolas in on the events he missed; the Dwarf added thirteen kills to his total. The Elf obligingly made all the correct responses, and asked several strategic questions, all of which had the Dwarf chattering incessantly. Jordan sagged; her shoulder throbbed, and she could feel the many cuts, scrapes and bruises.  
  
"Lean back against me, Melamin." Legolas murmured in her ear. Gratefully, Jordan did; she was beyond caring. Never mind the Elf was neat and clean while she looked like she took a dirt bath.  
  
"Why do you call me that?"  
  
"Why not? Sooner or later you will accept it. It is inevitable."  
  
"You're sure of yourself, aren't you?" In answer, Legolas kissed Jordan softly behind her right ear, and gave her a gentle squeeze, chuckling at her involuntary shiver of delight.  
  
He could feel the tension and impatience radiating from her. Knowing she wanted to see how the injured were doing, Legolas untied Gimli's mount in the main courtyard and helped his friend dismount.  
  
"Go on with you, Lad - take her to the House, she'll be needing a bandage or two." Gimli said, waving the pair away.  
  
"Gee, Gimli, I didn't know you cared!" she teased. The Dwarf's ruddy face reddened slightly. Jordan smiled before blowing the Dwarf a kiss.  
  
The Elf leapt again onto Arod's back, taking an alternate path leading directly to the House of Healing. As they neared, Jordan eyed the stairway with dismay. She wasn't looking forward to the climb. Legolas' grip around her waist tightened a notch then loosened immediately as she sucked her breath in. Her midsection still ached from the Uruk's kick.  
  
"My apologies, Melamin." He said, nuzzling her neck.  
  
"I guess you'll have to make it up to me." She said; the words were gone before she could stop them.  
  
"I intend to."  
  
Legolas spoke to Arod, and to her surprise, the horse mounted the stone steps, his hooves clattering loudly. Jordan was convinced Legolas was going ride the horse into the House itself, when - to her relief - they stopped at the great arched entry.  
  
"I shall wait for you, Melamin." The Elf said. Jordan was starting to get used to the endearment. She liked it.  
  
"No, please - do what you need to do. I'll be fine. Really. And thank you." She said. Grateful for his thoughtfulness, Jordan kissed the Elf's cheek as he helped her down. Legolas held her fast, his mouth capturing hers; the possessive, almost rough quality of his kiss was tinged with an edge of desperate relief that left her breathless.  
  
"This will do for now." He murmured.  
  
Jordan wanted more than anything to remain in his arms, to see where the kiss would lead, but she needed to know how Camthalion and Maeglin were doing. Reluctantly, Legolas released her; he watched as she made her way inside, his cloak billowing out behind her.  
  
Inside, the House was a blur of activity; workers tended the wounded as their kin waited impatiently in the hallways. Thankfully, there were many with only minor wounds. Standing off to the side, Jordan's eyes searched for the Elves she aided. Stopping an Apprentice, Jordan asked after them and was directed to an inner sanctum. Lingering in the doorway out of sight, Jordan looked on in amazement. Certain their conditions were grim at best, the sight that greeted her eyes was welcome indeed. Maeglin and Camthalion were sitting up in their cots, laughing and talking with their kin and friends by their sides. Seeing them well and in good spirits was enough for her.  
  
"Wonders never cease in Rivendell" Jordan said as she smiled to herself. Turning, she quietly left. Running into Laurenthail on her way out, she stopped the Healer and asked about their conditions.  
  
"Jordan, I'm pleased to see you-you are hurt. Come, I will tend your wounds." The Healer's sharp eyes traveled slowly over the Immortal's face, then went to her shoulder and arm.  
  
"I'll take care of it. It's just a scratch. Really. I'm okay." Jordan said. The she-Elf held Jordan by her shoulders.  
  
"What happened to your hair?" Smiling at Læurenthail's puzzled glance, Jordan replied.  
  
"It's a long story. I'll tell you later. How are Maeglin and Camthalion? Will they be okay?"  
  
After answering her anxious questions and assuring Jordan they were quite comfortable and would make a speedy recovery, Læurenthail excused herself to supervise the apprentices tending to the injured. Jordan's steps and heart were lighter as she made her way out. Læurenthail watched her leave, a puzzled expression on the lovely she-Elf's face as she saw Jordan's hair from the back.  
  
A/N: Hi! Sorry it took so long. I was . . . distracted. This chapter is a little long, n'est ce pas? Anyways, I hope you liked it. 


	15. Reflections

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to JRRT, his estate/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
Love Comes Walkin' In/Van Halen  
  
Contact is all it takes  
To change your life to lose your place in time  
Contact! Asleep or awake  
Coming around you may wake up to find  
Questions deep within your eyes,  
Now more than ever, you realize  
  
And then you sense a change  
Nothing feels the same  
All your dreams are strange,  
Love comes walkin' in  
Some kind of alien  
Waits for the opening  
Then simply pulls a string  
  
Another world, some other time  
You lay your sanity on the line  
Familiar faces, familiar sights  
Reach back remember with all your might  
Ohh, and there she stands in a silken gown  
With silver lights, shining down  
  
Sleep and dream that's all I crave  
I travel far across the Milky Way  
To my master I become a slave  
Till we meet again some other day  
Where silence speaks as loud as war  
Earth returns to what it was before  
  
And then you sense a change  
Nothing feels the same  
All your dreams are strange,  
Love comes walkin' in  
Some kind of alien  
Waits for the opening  
Then simply pulls a string  
  
Love comes walkin' in  
  
Reflections  
  
Once in her quarters, Jordan shut the door and leaned against it, her eyes closed. She was so tired and her body ached all over. Forcing herself forward, Jordan barely noticed the cheerful fire in the hearth; instead, her eyes were drawn to a large, silver tray set on a nearby table.  
  
She draped her tattered overcoat across a high backed chair and placed her weapons at the opposite end, admiring the etched surface of the domed lid. Laying a hand against the gleaming silver, it felt very warm to the touch. Swaying on her feet, Jordan shook herself awake, summoning the strength to raise the heavy lid, hoping sustenance lay beneath it; she wasn't disappointed.  
  
Inside was a large tureen containing a hearty stew; the tantalizing aroma wafting upwards made her mouth water and her stomach rumble loudly. Unwrapping a linen covered lump, beneath lay a loaf of warm, crusty bread; honeyed nuts, assorted hard and soft cheeses, fresh fruit, and the ubiquitous Lembas completed the offering. Despite her hunger, Jordan carefully replaced the lid.  
  
Unclasping Legolas' cloak, she rubbed her face against it before burying her face in the soft material, breathing in the woodsy, clean scent, wondering if his skin smelled the same. How thoughtful of him to lend it to her, after seeing the condition of her overcoat. Jordan opened her armoire and carefully hung it up before removing her cleaning kit. Jordan turned her attention to her weapons. The Immortal wiped her sticks free of dirt and Orc blood and checked the locking mechanism, frowning at the nicks and dents marring the polished surface. Unsheathing her Katana, she laid it on the table and stared at it.  
  
: : : : Mt. Fuji, Japan  
1947  
  
After the long trek down the mountain, the Highlander and his student returned to the village, to the samurai mansion owned by Duncan's good friend, Tsukino Nagayoshi. Weeping cherry trees lined the courtyard, filling the open area with their delicate, fragrant blossoms. Sitting side by side, Duncan's weapons lay on the table before them, as well as two identical kiri, or wooden boxes; Jordan reached for the shorter sword, but snatched her hand back after the Highlander gave her a sharp, stinging slap when her fingers almost touched the blade. Rubbing her hand, Jordan gave him a surprised, hurt look.  
  
"Never handle it by the blade, Jordie. Respect it, and it will take  
care of you."  
  
"You didn't have to hit me." She said, sulking.  
  
"I didn't. It was a gentle reminder. Believe me, you wouldn't know  
if I had." He answered.  
  
"Our weapons are connected to us. The 'hows' and 'why's' I'm not  
certain of. What I am certain, is that when you truly understand your sword, it becomes a part of you. "  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked.  
  
"Where ordinary weapons are susceptible to damage, yours won't be,  
although there have been instances when an Immortal has broken the weapon of another during a Challenge; think of it as a measure of your will and strength, for when you receive a Quickening, it infuses your sword with strength as well. But that doesn't mean you should neglect its care. Just like your skills, to remain effective, you must maintain it. Care for it as you would yourself. Now you learn how to clean a sword."  
  
Duncan removed the contents of his kiri, instructing Jordan to do the same. Placing the Tanto, the shorter of the two swords before her, the Highlander lifted his Dragon Head Katana and pointed to the wooden box.  
  
"This is your cleaning kit; it'd be a good idea to carry one with you at all times. I have several, 'cause you never know when you'll need it. Remove the blade from the hilt with this tool, the mekugu-nuki." The Highlander selected a balled spike from the array of tools, removing his blade with ease. Watching her Teacher intently, Jordan picked hers up and fumbled several times before managing to separate the tang from the hilt. Duncan watched with patient amusement.  
  
"Take the abura-nuguishi; we'll do the preliminary cleaning with this paper. Wipe from the bottom up - not too hard, now! Be careful to not put pressure on the tip" Jordan copied the Highlander's wiping motion as best she could. The Highlander held up a stick with a padded ball on the end.  
  
"Clean the blade with the uchiko, the whetstone powder." The  
Highlander patted the blade with the ball uniformly from the base to the tip, then turned it over and did the same from tip to base.  
  
"Now we wipe the uchiko and old oil off with the nugui-agami before  
returning the tang - by itself -- to the scabbard." The Highlander held up a piece of thick, wrinkled paper and expertly wiped the blade clean.  
  
"Saki for your thoughts."  
  
"I don't think I'll ever get it right."  
  
"Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it." He reassured her, soaking a  
different piece of paper in clove oil.  
  
"Now for the finishing touch - a thin coat of Choji." The Highlander  
carefully slid the tang out of the scabbard and applied a thin, even coat of oil with the abura-nuguishi. Jordan copied him.  
  
"How'd I do?" she asked.  
  
"Not bad for a beginner. You just need to get the technique down; and  
here's your chance." Duncan said, moving his weapons to one side.  
  
Jordan followed the direction of his gaze. With a slight nod of his  
head, three female servants came forward, two had their arms filled with swords and daggers, the third bore a tray laden with tea, and rice crackers. Drawing near, they bowed respectfully.  
  
"Arigatougozaimasu (thank you)." Duncan said as they laid them down  
before Jordan.  
  
"Douitashimashite (you are welcome), Duncan-San." the servants bowed  
again before they left, giggling softly, they threw shy smiles over their shoulders. The Highlander looked after them, a big grin on his handsome face. Open-mouthed, Jordan could only stare at the pile before her.  
  
"But -- "  
  
"But nothing. I suggest you get started. Don't worry, I'll be right here, watching you." Duncan poured himself a cup of tea. Jordan reached for the longest sword in the pile. Unsheathing it, she glared at her Teacher.  
  
"Don't even think about it, Jordie." Duncan said, unconcerned as he  
sipped his tea.  
  
She reached for the mekugu-nuki instead. : : : :  
  
Jordan smiled at the memory as she cleaned, oiled and reassembled her Katana. Returning it to its scabbard, she reached for her overcoat, extracting the bundle from the pocket. Unwrapping it, her smile vanished as she studied the distorted shurikens. Eight were beyond recognition, four were intact, and all but one was stained with dark blood; of the four, one had both reddish-brown and black blood.  
  
Carefully, she cleaned the intact stars, before attempting to salvage the rest. Somehow, Jordan managed to not slice her fingers open to the bone on the sharp, twisted metal. It was a daunting task, but she had to try. Tiny sparks danced about her hands as her Quickening instantly healed the superficial cuts on her fingertips. With a curse, she gave up.  
  
The Uruk was thorough in its destruction; the Orcs and Uruks got their  
posthumous revenge, for their tarry blood appeared to have a corrosive quality. Studying the areas she did manage to clean, Jordan could see the pitting in the metal; it was especially bad where the dark blood had pooled. Resigned to the loss, Jordan secured the four remaining stars to the leather sash; the rest she placed in a small woven basket.  
  
Sighing, Jordan buried her head in her hands. The day's events were starting to catch up with her; weariness set in, making her very bones feel like lead. Pushing herself to her feet, Jordan was glad to find the pitcher on the dresser filled with fresh water. Using the washbasin, Jordan cleaned her hands and face. Walking to the table, the Immortal raised the heavy lid with her good arm. There was enough stew to feed four; she ladled out a generous bowlful and settled down to eat.  
  
Lifting a spoon, Jordan halfheartedly dug into the stew, chewing slowly as she ate; the delicious taste brought a smile to her face in appreciation of the hot meal. Sopping up the thick, savory broth with bread, Jordan's mind was blank. Her hunger finally sated, she sat back in the chair, and gave a loud, satisfied burp. The Immortal contemplated collapsing in the bed as she was, but decided against it; looking out the window, the moon was starting its ascent into the night sky.  
  
With a sigh, Jordan climbed to her feet. Slowly stripping to the skin, she winced as she peeled away her shirt; the throbbing pain had reduced to a dull ache. Experimentally, she rolled her shoulder and raised her arm; Jordan now had full range of motion, though the healing was incomplete. She estimated it would be at least another hour till she was as good as new. Neatly folding her clothes, she placed them on the chair nearest the door. Jordan pulled on a robe, cinching it at the waist and gathered another robe, her sleeping shift and toiletries, then made her way to the bathing room.  
  
Slipping into the warm water, Jordan took a deep breath before submersing herself, a steady stream of bubbles marking her location. Breaking the surface with a large splash, Jordan slicked her hair back and waded to the edge; turning, she sat on a low step, slouching down till the water came to her neck; she laid her head back on the ledge, letting the swirling, warm water massage and soothe her sore body.  
  
Picking up a sea sponge, she reached for a scented bar of soap and lathered up, washing away the dirt and sweat of battle. Inspecting her left bicep, all that remained of the deep gash from the Uruk-hai's arrow was a thin, pink line; even as she watched, the sparks of Quickening appeared, leaving her skin whole. The superficial scratches on her face had healed as well, the scabs scrubbed away, leaving behind unmarred flesh. Probing her cheek, the deep scrapes from the Orc's slap had almost fully healed; she could feel the thin lines with her fingertips. Not much longer for that, either.  
  
As she sat in the warm waters, Jordan thought about the past and her parents. After her Immortality had been triggered, her past was all she had left to cling to, that anchored her-that and Duncan, those first tumultuous years she learned the Game. And it was because of her love for her parents that she clung to her (by today's standards) out dated upbringing.  
  
Raised and groomed to be the perfect socialite; her mother also strove to ingrain within her daughter a strong sense of self-respect and duty to the strict social mores of that time, always admonishing her to not cause the family to 'lose face'; her father, on the other hand, was ahead of his time, a true renaissance man. When Jordan came along, nothing was too good for her. As she grew older, he insisted his daughter be educated as any male would be. Garret Waters was determined to nurture within his only child a sense of independence and confidence--much to her mother's chagrin.  
  
Late at night, she would sneak out of bed and sit on the stairs, watching them thru the rails; her father would put a record on the phonograph and dance with her mother. Sometimes she could overhear their conversations, her mother fretting to her father that their only child would never find a man of 'proper' means who would be willing to marry their daughter because of her headstrong ways and unconventional ideas.  
  
Her father would snort and reply that no man would then be worthy of  
his little jewel. She was delighted to see her father sweep her mother up in a tender embrace, silencing her mother's protests with a loving kiss. Jordan wanted the kind of love shared by her parents. And now that she was Immortal, she was willing to wait. Jordan roused herself from the bittersweet memories, her thoughts turning to the recent battle. Elves may be beautiful, but they certainly can be deadly as well, she mused. Not wanting to remember the recent carnage, nor the hideous visages of the Orcs and Uruk-hai, her thoughts turned to Legolas; despite the warm waters, she shivered, remembering his kisses and the feel of his hands on her face. And body. Where exactly were these feelings going?  
  
"What _do_ I feel for him?" She asked herself. It was too confusing.  
  
Whether they were talking, or sitting in silence, she was happy to be with him. His mere presence assured her that everything would be okay. The physical attraction she felt for him was undeniable, but there was something else-a feeling of.belonging.  
  
The Elf was dangerous. The feelings he evoked from her more so, for  
in his company, home and Duncan felt like a distant memory, not to mention her sensibility fled when he was near. Disturbed, she banished the thought from her mind, willing it to be blank as she finished her bath.  
  
Returning to her room, Jordan brushed her hair dry before the fire; comparing the uneven ends in the mirror, the Immortal decided she preferred the shorter length, liking the way it blended in with the shorter layers of her hair, the ends curling up slightly. Making a face at herself, she decided to deal with her hair in the morning. Despite her bath, and her weariness, she was unable to sleep, her mind too alert. Restless, she stepped onto the balcony. The soft night breeze brought the sound of ethereal voices singing, the haunting melody struck a chord within her, awakening a longing that she didn't understand and couldn't name.  
  
Toying with the leaf at her neck, Jordan felt inexplicably alone; she did her good deed. Surely helping rid Middle Earth of a few Orcs would be payment to the powers that be, and she'd return home. Home. Where was home? Did she still exist, or was she simply . . . erased? Did she truly want to return? Return to the same routine of work and quality time with a book? Aside from Duncan and Joe, there was nothing. Just thinking about it made her head hurt; it took too much effort. Her thoughts turned to her co-workers, wondering what they were doing, if they noticed her absence. Was she missed?  
  
Through the years, she had had boyfriends, but her relationships never lasted more than a year, two at the most; always, there was a restlessness that would surface, a feeling there was someone out there she was meant for. Immortality gave her the luxury of time, but it didn't fill the void, nor did it quell the sense that something was missing; so far, no one inspired her to share her heart or her body with her past boyfriends and dates, although they certainly did try to persuade her otherwise. Actually, she had come close, once . . . Jordan shoved those thoughts aside; she didn't like to dwell on the unpleasant memories.  
  
Immortality definitely had its advantages. Not subject to the diseases - - sexual or otherwise - - that ravaged the mortal population, Jordan was certainly free to live any lifestyle she wanted or take as many lovers as often as she wished, but she wanted something more than an empty, casual encounter, no matter how physically satisfying it may be. She often teased Duncan about his many conquests, but it appeared that even the Highlander had become selective of late as to who he shared pleasure with, especially after Tessa. It was astonishing to see how a dead woman could still hold a man's heart. Jordan's lips tightened. She knew that only too well.  
  
The numerous offers for blind dates by well meaning acquaintances and  
coworkers eventually decreased till virtually no one was interested in trying to fix her up. That suited her just fine. Except her best friend, Collette wouldn't hear of it. Dear Collette; she was forever trying to fix her up on a blind date. The irrepressible blonde was relentless in her pursuit to see Jordan paired up with someone. She'd nag, bully and wheedle Jordan into a double date; the Immortal occasionally gave in, just to pacify her friend, and only because Collette took such a sincere, vested interest in her happiness.  
  
There were times when she felt romance was overrated; it appeared true fulfillment could be found only in romance novels, where the heroes were perfect and the heroines lived happily ever after. Collette often teased her, informing her her standards were too high, and no man could be what she expected.  
  
* * * But Legolas isn't a man * * * a small voice in her head  
whispered. She tried to ignore it.  
  
"I don't understand you, Jordie. You're not gay --" Collette began  
one day.  
  
"Isn't the proper term 'a lesbian'?"  
  
"Whatever. You love to fix other people's love lives, yet you don't want help with yours. You tell everyone else there's someone for everyone, but you won't give anyone a chance. What gives?"  
  
"I'm complicated."  
  
"Well, you'd better simplify yourself, 'cause you'll end up alone. Is that what you want?"  
  
"What I want is for you to accept the fact that I like being single." Jordan said, gritting her teeth. Didn't they just have this conversation?  
  
"You're going to end up an Old Maid! " Collette warned, exasperated when another blind date complained of being stood up. Jordan had pleaded forgetfulness when confronted.  
  
* * * If you only knew. * * * Jordan thought with a smile. She'd just  
celebrated her 79th birthday.  
  
"How do you know I'm not an old soul trapped in a young body?" Jordan  
asked, teasing her friend.  
  
"Look-all I'm saying is that before that young body becomes an old  
body to match that old soul, you're entitled to a little fun before  
you die - you're only young once! No one lives forever. "  
  
Leaning against the stone balcony, Jordan stared out at eternity, contemplating forever.  
  
====   
  
The door swung noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges as Methos closed it softly; his eyes adjusted to the dark room. The furnishings were thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight streaming in thru the large picture windows. Making his way to Duncan's desk, Methos sat before the computer. Everything was state of the art-nothing but the best available technology would do for the Highlander. At a touch, the computer sprang to life with a quiet whirr; the hard drive softly chirped, lights winked as it went thru its self-test. Methos adjusted the position of the web camera before accessing the Internet. Within seconds, the static cleared to reveal his former student's visage, the resolution so clear that the Ancient could make out the different hues of blue in the painting that hung on the wall behind his friend. Despite holding the title as the second oldest living Immortal, Caine Spencer appeared to be in his early 20's  
  
"Marriage agrees with you." Methos said. "Is Meredith home?" he inquired.  
  
"No-she's out shopping. A sale at Harrod's or something like that. I'm minding the roost. I take it this isn't a social call. What's up?" Caine' crossed his arms behind his head.  
  
"MacLeod's on a mission."  
  
"Isn't he always? How is the bugger?" Caine asked. Methos' image shrugged non-committedly.  
  
"Ah well. I take it he's still upset with me; we haven't spoken since 1993."  
  
"He certainly can hold a grudge, eh?" Methos said, amused. Caine smiled wryly, recalling his run in with the Immortal Kalas, how he taunted him using Duncan's name and an impressive Scottish brogue. It almost cost him his head.  
  
"That wasn't very smart." Methos said; a smile on his patrician face gave away his delight at the prank. Too bad he didn't think of it first. Then again, he and Duncan hadn't met.  
  
"Maybe not, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Either way, Duncan won; I heard he took Kalas' head a year later."  
  
"He did us all a favor." Methos said. In the screen, Caine agreed.  
  
"Anyways. What's Duncan's mission?"  
  
"He's searching for someone; he. . . 'lost' a friend."  
  
"I'm not sure I follow; he 'lost' someone as in..?"  
  
"Vanished."  
  
"Is he certain it wasn't by choice?"  
  
"He doesn't seem to think so."  
  
"That's too bad; anyone I know?"  
  
"Jordan Waters. Do you know her?"  
  
"No. Tell me why I should care."  
  
"Because you've never shied away from a just cause. Think of it as a belated penance for sending Kalas after MacLeod." Caine said nothing. Methos knew he'd hit pay dirt.  
  
"Are you still writing?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"Oh, A little bit of everything."  
  
"Tell me, have you ever done research on historical subjects-anything along the line of legend?  
  
"Not lately; I do know someone who is interested in that sort of stuff. Why?"  
  
"MacLeod had this box. He claims a friend gave it to Jordan. The best part is that is glows in the moonlight. The only time I've seen something similar was in Arthur's court."  
  
"Hmmm. Interesting."  
  
"This friend of yours---"  
  
"I'll get the number and address for you."  
  
Caine got up to retrieve the information; shortly, he reappeared in the screen again. A muffled sound caught Methos' attention. Turning back to the monitor, the Ancient one placed his finger against his lips. In the screen, Caine nodded once, and started scribbling on a piece of paper, he held it close to his webcam for the elder Immortal to read; Methos reached for a notepad and plucked a pen from its holder. He quickly copied the information before silently waving good-bye. Closing the screen, the Immortal resisted the inane urge to stand as the doorknob turned and bright lights flooded the room; Methos blinked in the sudden glare.  
  
"Methos?" Duncan's muscular body filled the doorway, his Katana in hand.  
  
"I thought I heard voices. Everything okay?" his dark gaze swept the room.  
  
"Fine, fine. Couldn't sleep. I was just surfing the Internet. Sorry-didn't mean to wake you." Methos replied, looking properly apologetic.  
  
"Oh. S'okay. I'm going back to bed." Stifling a yawn, the Highlander stretched, his sword flashing.  
  
"Leave the lights off, please, MacLeod." Methos called.  
  
Nodding, Duncan yawned as he shuffled out and shut the door behind him. Methos waited until the Highlander left before propping his feet on the desk. He read the name and address on the paper, a thoughtful frown on his face; sitting in the dark with a faraway look in his eyes, the Immortal watched the dark sky gradually give way to the gray light of dawn.  
  
~ ` ~ ` ~ `  
Methos pulled the zipper of his carry-on closed, securing it with a tiny padlock. With a last look around the room, the Ancient One was satisfied he left nothing behind.  
  
Things were not looking good. A month had passed with no sign of or word from Jordan. Clinging to the hope that she was out there somewhere, secretly, the Highlander was starting to despair. Out on the balcony, Duncan sat in a lounge chair. Grabbing a six-pack of beer from the fridge, Methos went to join his friend.  
  
Popping the tab on the can, Methos stole a quick glance at his brooding friend. Nudging Duncan with his foot, Methos held the beer out for him. Absently, the younger Immortal took it. Opening up his own can, Methos took a long pull, relishing the unique taste of the brew and waited in companionable silence. Duncan didn't disappoint.  
  
"I don't get it. Vanished. It's like she literally dropped off the face of the earth." Duncan said.  
  
Methos arched an eyebrow; the Highlander was taking her disappearance hard; perhaps harder than Connor's loss. . . as if there was something to prove. To whom? To himself? To her? Methos took another swig from his can.  
  
"C'mon, MacLeod; Joe's on it, and so are the police. What you need to do is take a step back. Get your bearings. You're too close."  
  
"How can you be so blasé about it?" Duncan said angrily.  
  
" 'Blasé'? who said I was? I know what its like to lose somebody. We all do. At least you know there's hope. There wasn't for -- " Methos broke off, his nostrils flaring in anger. He calmed himself.  
  
"Look at it this way, MacLeod: no news is good news. Before we cross swords, hear me out. As of this moment - Joe said there'd been no confirmation of her death, and we know that if a mortal killed her, she'll eventually be okay. You are her Teacher, so that makes her capable of taking care of herself. You didn't find Connor overnight, and it looks to be the same way with Jordan. Like it or not, you're going to have to wait. In the meantime, you've done everything you possibly can. You'll find her. We'll find her."  
  
Duncan sighed and stood up. He knew his friend was right, but it didn't seem to matter. Jordie was still missing. Duncan poured his beer in the flowerpot. He wasn't thirsty.  
  
"That, my friend, is a sin of epic proportions. You do not waste beer. Ever." Methos said, half serious. Duncan looked at him. Methos gave him a sardonic grin. He followed the younger Immortal into the loft.  
  
"Just trying to lighten the mood, MacLeod. Let's get out of here and check on Joe." Methos suggested.  
  
"Maybe you're right. I could use a break. Let me grab my wallet." Duncan said.  
  
"I suggest extra clothes and your passport, as well." Methos sauntered to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of German beer. Twisting the top off, he tilted his head back, letting the dark, bitter brew slide down his throat. Delicious. He walked around the kitchen counter and took a seat at a barstool.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, MacLeod," Methos spoke slowly, as if talking to a child "Joe is in Paris."  
  
"He is?"  
  
"He is."  
  
"He didn't tell me that."  
  
"It's a free country. You'd better start packing."  
  
"And you think we'll catch a flight there just like that?" Duncan snapped his fingers.  
  
"I know we'll catch a flight, 'cause it's going to leave in. . . " Methos glanced at his watch " . . . an hour."  
  
"How'd you manage that?" Duncan asked.  
  
"I booked the Concorde." The Ancient One struggled to keep a straight face.  
  
"I thought Adam Pierson couldn't afford it." Duncan's brows drew together; he had a feeling something wasn't quite right.  
  
"You're absolutely right. But you can." Methos grinned.  
  
"What?!" Duncan couldn't believe his ears. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised. The Old Man had a habit of pulling this kind of stunt, and usually at the Highlander's financial expense.  
  
"Come on MacLeod; forty five minutes left. The cab will be here in ten."  
  
"If I paid for it, the damned plane can wait for me!" the Highlander snapped, grumbling as he went to pack.  
  
Methos' grin faded as soon as the Highlander was out of sight. The Ancient One refused to second-guess himself. He took another pull of his beer. Ten minutes later, the Immortals were ready, bags in hand. Walking to the closet, Methos reached for his overcoat and tossed the Highlander his. Picking up his bags, Duncan followed his friend out, shutting the door firmly behind him.  
  
A/N: Hi! For all you 'anonymous' reviewers on FF.Net, thank you for taking the time to send a word or two. I truly appreciate you doing so. And for you gentle readers still following this story --- THANK YOU!!! 


	16. The Eye of the Beholder

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
Ch. 16  
  
The Eye of the Beholder  
  
The terminal blurred, trees became a streak of green as the powerful engines thrust the Concorde upward. Its long, needle shaped nose sliced thru the air as it soared into the clear blue sky. The G-Force during take off pressed the Immortals deeper into the fine leather seats as the jet climbed higher and higher. Looking out the window, Methos watched the ground rapidly fall away; soon the landscape below resembled a colorful patchwork quilt. Transitioning to supersonic flight, the Concorde's sleek silhouette hurtled through the skies at Mach 2-- twice the speed of sound -- reaching an altitude over 11 miles high. So high, in fact, the Immortals were able to see the curvature of the earth below. Popping a chocolate covered blueberry in his mouth, the Ancient chewed thoughtfully before turning to his friend.  
  
"You know, MacLeod; this is the only way to travel."  
  
"What—free?" came the churlish reply.  
  
The Highlander glared at the Ancient One from behind the morning issue of Le Parisien; following the headlines, Duncan turned to the next page, snapping his newspaper sharply to emphasize his displeasure.  
  
"Is there any other way?" Methos asked, nonplussed as he leaned back in his chair and grinned; the younger Immortal's ire did not impress him. Besides, he'd make it up to the Highlander.  
  
"Are you done with the sports section?" Methos inquired, giving the Chieftain's son his most innocent smile.  
  
Duncan gave his friend the evil eye as he handed over the requested section. Inside the luxuriously appointed cabin, as they winged towards their destination, the Highlander and the Ancient One enjoyed beluga caviar, sparkling pink champagne on ice and a sumptuous lunch, all served by a very attractive, very buxom flight attendant. Lifting his champagne flute, Methos proposed a toast.  
  
"Here's to success." The Ancient One said cryptically.  
  
Duncan raised a dark brow at that but said nothing, mistaking the Eldest's meaning of 'success' regarding the securing of some very hard to get seats on the Concorde. Though he could more than afford their very expensive flight, the Highlander was not looking forward to the pending bill. He did not become independently wealthy by squandering his wisely invested means foolishly. Still puzzled as to how the Elder Immortal managed to get his financial information -- which he guarded vigilantly (obviously not well enough), the Highlander allowed the loaded words to slip by unchallenged; instead, Duncan lifted his champagne flute. Clinking their flutes together, the crystal sang its pure, clear song as the Highlander rolled his eyes and took a sip. Soon, the stewardess' low, smooth voice filled the cabin.  
  
"Nous sommes approchons notre descente finale dans l'aéroport d'Orly (we are approaching our final descent into Orly Airport). Veuillez attacher vos ceintures de sécurité, Messieurs (please fasten your seatbelts, sirs)."  
  
The Immortals did as directed, each eagerly looking forward to their arrival for very different reasons.  
  
#  
  
Orly Airport  
Paris  
  
Directly below the magnificent white bird's flight path, a continuous sonic boom heralded the Concorde's triumphant arrival in Parisian airspace. Touching down as smooth as velvet, the jet taxied down the runway, then slowed to a crawl before rolling to a barely perceptible stop. The flight attendant gave the Immortals a dazzling smile on her way to unseal the hatch.  
  
"Helluva way to make an entrance, MacLeod," Methos commented as they stepped outside.  
  
A uniformed porter waited for the Immortals at the bottom of the moveable footbridge to collect their bags, only to have his gloved hand stayed when he reached for their swords cases. Shrugging, the Frenchman muttered to himself as he rolled his cart away. Inside the terminal, the Immortals easily navigated their way through the hustle and bustle of anxious airline commuters hurrying to catch their connecting flights. Skirting the crowds of tourists milling about in confusion, Methos sauntered alongside the Highlander, who moved with the confidence of a proven warrior. As they waited their turn in the customs line, the Immortals' tall, dark figures caught many admiring female eyes and quite a few envious male glares.  
  
"Se réjouir dans le festival, Monsieurs (enjoy yourselves at the Festival, sirs)." the official said, scrutinizing their passports. Properly tagged and stored, the Immortals and their swords had no trouble clearing customs.  
  
"Merci," Methos replied.  
  
The Ancient One exchanged wry glances with the Chieftain's Son, for directly across from them, a glossy poster on the wall announced the commencement of the annual Renaissance Festival. Making their way through the terminal, the Immortals joined the hordes of humanity at the luggage carousel, watching the seemingly endless pieces of luggage pass by on the conveyor belt.  
  
"Have you ever wondered why we can walk into an international airport with weapons and not be detained?" Duncan asked. Methos shrugged.  
  
"Why question it? Some things are meant to be, MacLeod. Just go with it," the elder Immortal answered. "Though I'd guess the fact our profiles don't appear in Interpol's data base must work in our favor."  
  
"Ha. Ha. Ha," Duncan said, though he made no other comment; Perhaps some things should just be accepted for face value.  
  
Plucking their belongings from the carousel, the duo quickly exited and made their way outside. Procuring a taxi, Methos leaned back and looked outside the window, enjoying the familiar sights. Undisputedly a beautiful city (despite being filled by Parisians), so much of Methos' past was intertwined with the venerable city's history . . . and what the Ancient One buried there continued to bind him to the charming megalopolis more securely than any physical bond could. Paris also held many memories for the Highlander -- memories of happier times with Tessa and Richie. Methos'words broke Duncan's silent reverie.  
  
"Now aren't you glad I booked the Concorde, MacLeod?" he asked, his tone smug.  
  
"You're not the one getting the bill," the Highlander said dourly. "How'd you get my credit card information, anyways?" he added, suddenly suspicious.  
  
"I have my ways." Methos replied softly.  
  
Secretly, Duncan was indeed glad, for they'd made excellent time, arriving in Paris in less than three hours. Crossing the Pacific, according to the Parisian time zone, they'd arrived before even taking off. Closing his eyes, Duncan rested his head against the seat; the Immortal didn't need to see to know where they were going. He could feel the route, for it was familiar to him as the back of his hand. Duncan's anticipation grew as they drew near.  
  
#  
  
Port De La Tournelle  
The 'Amadeus'  
Duncan's Barge  
  
Duncan opened his eyes as the taxi pulled rolled to a quick stop alongside the barge; with his heart pounding in his chest, the Highlander stared at his floating home. He barely heard their driver chattering away as he unloaded the trunk; absently, Duncan guessed he was from the West Indies or Haiti, for the driver's heavy accent gave his French a sing song quality.  
  
"Don't worry, MacLeod; the cab's on me." Methos said as he paid the driver and gave him a modest tip.  
  
"You're a big spender, Old Man," Duncan tossed over his shoulder as he stepped out of the taxi. The Highlander already had one foot on the gangway.  
  
"Just living within my means, MacLeod," Methos retorted good- naturedly. He shouldered his carry-on and hefted his suitcase. The Highlander laughed despite himself.  
  
"Don't you mean my means?" Duncan clarified. The elder Immortal pretended to not hear.  
  
Unlocking the cabin, the Highlander paused and looked around. It was as if he'd never left; furniture was uncovered, everything was in its appointed place, waiting for him. Touching the sun burst on the wall, Duncan wandered over to the ancient Japanese silk screen hanging between the portholes. All of Tessa's sculptures were exactly as she left them, as were her unfinished sketches. His eyes drifted to the bed; the Highlander closed his eyes and braced himself as bittersweet memories came rushing back, ghostly echoes of the past gaining strength, demanding to be heard: the sound of Tessa's soft voice . . . her laughter . . . her giggles and moans of pleasure as they made love . . . Duncan swore he could almost smell her perfume. It had to be his imagination.  
  
Opening his eyes, the Highlander moved towards the couch and sat down. A green bandanna caught his eye; it once belonged to Richie. Duncan remembered the proud look on Richie's face when he brought home that awful bust of Napoleon as a 'barge warming' gift -- the very same bust Tessa accidentally broke shortly after. Rising to his feet, Duncan's eyes settled on the chess set. The pieces were unmoved from the last game he'd played with Richie.  
  
The Highlander attempted to instruct his gregarious Student the finer points and strategies of chess, encouraging the younger Immortal to exercise his mind. Unfortunately, Richie didn't bother to seriously learn the game. Instead, his focus was concentrated on making the acquaintances of the young ladies in the city. A smile creased the Highlanders face, for in many ways, Richie reminded Duncan of himself, when he was more innocent. The chess set brought back yet more memories of another friend long gone. Studying the pieces, Duncan lifted the Knight, remembering the many sets he'd play in the Rectory with his good friend and mentor, Darius. He gently set down the wooden piece, his eyes flicking to his desk.  
  
Striding to the desk, Duncan stepped onto the chair and lifted the cover of the overhead compartment. Tucked way in back beyond reach was four large carafes of mead brewed by the Immortal general-turned-priest. Reaching for one, Duncan's fingers gently caressed the glass. In the light of day, the amber liquid took on a warm, golden glow. Immortality is a double- edged sword. Especially when you outlasted those you care for -- mortal and Immortal. A sad smile appeared on the Highlander's face. Duncan touched the cold glass once more before he carefully placed it back with its companions.  
  
The last time the Highlander drank mead was when Fitzcairn paid him an unexpected visit; sadly, it was the same day Darius was murdered by renegade Watchers. Since then, Duncan did not tap into his stash of the rare brew. Instead, he saved it as a remembrance of his slain friend. If only he'd been able to save him. The only good thing that came of that horrible day was saving Fitzcairn from the same fate. Connor, Tessa, Richie, Fitzcairn, Rebecca, Gabriel, Charlie, Sean, Darius – all of them were gone. . .and damn it, he wasn't going to add Jordie to that list! Fighting the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, the Highlander steeled himself. With a sigh, the Highlander prowled his floating home.  
  
Checking the galley, Duncan raised an eyebrow. The refer was fully stocked and a pot of onion soup simmered on the stovetop. On the kitchen counter a wooden carving board held an assortment of fruit and cheese. A note lay beside it with instructions concerning the garlic bread and roast in the refer. The Highlander placed the roast into the pre-warmed oven and plucked a grape from the cluster on the counter, biting into the tart skin as he reacquainted himself with the rest of the barge. In the head, the toilet flushed and clear water flowed from the tap. Duncan walked back into the main living area; Methos had come in and was hanging his overcoat in a closet.  
  
"Ah, I see Celeste came," Methos said, giving the place a cursory glance. "She also made dinner. Wonderful."  
  
Duncan shrugged out of his as well, removing his Katana from the scabbard. Tossing it to the Ancient, Duncan sat on the sofa and reached for his kiri. The Highlander began to clean his sword, his mood dark and brooding.  
  
"You thought of all the details, Methos," the Highlander commented. The Eldest allowed himself a small smile at Duncan's words.  
  
If only you knew, MacLeod. the Ancient One thought to himself.  
  
"It's the least I could do after that first class flight. Why pay to stay elsewhere when you've your own?" Methos said. Duncan couldn't argue with the logic.  
  
#  
  
Clearing away the remnants of their meal, Methos dried the last dish and put it away. It appeared he'd be paying for his beer and board by doing dishes. Again. He sighed; all considering, it wasn't too bad. The Ancient One, however, drew the line at cleaning the head. Scrubbing toilets was not in his self-appointed job description. Unless, of course, every stroke resulted in a case of beer; for which, he'd do almost anything. Overhead, Methos could hear the Highlander move about topside, inspecting the deck, checking the moorings. When Duncan returned below deck, he seemed to be in lighter spirits, the melancholy air was gone.  
  
"Let's go see Joe," the younger Immortal suggested.  
  
"That's the first intelligent thing you've said since we've arrived, MacLeod," Methos replied as he hung up the dishtowel.  
  
The Highlander shot the Eldest a dirty look as he retrieved their overcoats. Tossing Methos his, Duncan slid his Katana into the scabbard and headed above deck. Methos opened the closet door and pulled out his suitcase. Unlocking it, the Ancient rummaged beneath his clothes and removed his dagger and gun. He didn't bother to test the blade's edge, for he always made sure to keep it razor sharp. Turning his attention to the Glock, the Immortal held it to the light; Methos checked the safeties and did a quick press check. Pushing the gun's slide a quarter to the rear, the brass of the round in the chamber winked up at him. Satisfied, he withdrew two more magazines and slid his dagger into its sheath at the small of his back. Checking to see the mags were fully loaded, Methos slipped them into one of the many secret pockets of his overcoat and went to join his friend.  
  
On deck, the Highlander finished his final check of the barge's bilge pump; when Methos appeared on deck, Duncan secured the cabin and stepped into the speedboat. Hands in his pockets, Methos absently adjusted the weight of his sword hidden within his overcoat as he watched his friend insert the key and give it a twist. The Ancient One fervently hoped nothing would happen (in 765, Methos crossed the Atlantic to Iceland in a rowboat with Irish Monks who sang non-stop. The elder Immortal hated the water ever since); his hopes were dashed when the small but powerful engine roared to life. Adjusting the controls, Duncan waited impatiently for Methos to board. The Eldest took his time boarding the small craft, dawdling as much as he dared.  
  
"C'mon, this is the fastest way we'll make it to Joe's. Are you coming, or are you going to take a taxi?" Duncan asked, eager to reacquaint himself with the city.  
  
"Patience is a virtue, MacLeod," Methos said, eyeing the speedboat warily.  
  
"So's the ability to swim. I'm not feeling virtuous right now," Duncan warned.  
  
Reluctantly, Methos climbed in and sat down. Once the mooring was released, the Highlander smoothly steered it away from the barge, easing the throttle forward until the boat skipped along the water's surface. The wind whipped back the Immortals' hair and stung their faces. Duncan glanced at his friend. Methos didn't look thrilled at all; one hand was braced on the dashboard, the other tightly gripped the back of his seat as they bounced along. The Highlander laughed, the sound lost in the wind; Duncan grinned and pushed the throttle forward all the way; in response, the boat shuddered and barely skimmed the water as they hydroplaned. Beside him, Methos groaned and looked decidedly unwell.  
  
It was good to be back.  
  
#  
  
Watching Jordan disappear into the House, Legolas walked Arod to the stable. Dismissing the stable hand, Legolas unbuckled his quiver and knives and carefully leaned them and his great bow against the stall's corner. The golden Elf attended his equine friend personally; drawing fresh water, he brought a bale of sweet-smelling hay, and adding an extra measure of oats to Arod's feed. While the noble steed ate, Legolas used the currycomb to remove loose hair and dirt from his coat. Using long strokes, the Elf brushed his mount's sleek hide until it shone like pure driven snow. Stroking the horse's velvety nose, Legolas quietly spoke to him in Elvish. The horse nickered in reply.  
  
"She is different," Legolas acknowledged.  
  
Chuckling softly, the Prince ran his hands down the horse's withers. Arod snorted and nudged the Elf with his head.  
  
"Which one, Mellonamin?" the Elf asked. The horse whinnied; Legolas left the stall and returned with a hoof pick.  
  
"Yes, there is something most beguiling about her," The Elf agreed as he checked the horse's hooves.  
  
Picking up a hind leg, he inspected the shoe. Holding it securely between his knees, Legolas bent over and used the pick to remove dirt and debris from the equine's hoof.  
  
"So, you believe she feels the same, do you?" Legolas asked as he worked.  
  
Arod tossed his head and swished his flowing tail, smacking the Elf in the face with the stiff hairs. Legolas lightly slapped the horse affectionately on the rear. Looking at his Elf, Arod playfully swished his tail again, mussing the Elf's hair. Looking over his shoulder, Legolas waved the pick at his steed.  
  
"Behave, Mellonamin. If you want your other hooves cleaned, you musn't annoy your farrier." The Prince said with a stern expression on his perfect face  
  
The Mirkwood Elf didn't fool the horse. Arod blew an equine raspberry at the Elf and spittle flew everywhere. Legolas chuckled and raised his arms, avoiding most of the spray. Bending over again, Legolas resumed their conversation as he tended the other hooves. When Legolas finished, the Elf rubbed his mount's ears.  
  
"That was not kind of you to jostle her so; though I admit it was very pleasant to hold her close. For that I thank you, my friend." Arod whinnied, showing his teeth in an equine version of a smile.  
  
"I feel her desire for me as well, but I do not believe she is ready to act upon it. I have heard that mortal women are strange that way; some say they are prone to fits of melancholy as well – more so than the males." Arod snorted and leaned his head over the Elf's shoulder. Legolas patted the horse's neck.  
  
"Tis a pity, of the maidens in Middle Earth, the one whom I desire above all else is a daughter of Man. Not only is she mortal, Jordan insists she does not belong here. Perhaps the Valar will smile upon me and make it so that the lady will not wish to return," Legolas mused; Arod showed the whites of his eyes and tossed his head.  
  
"Oh, I intend to persuade her otherwise, my friend," the Elf said.  
  
"She is mine; she just does not realize it yet. . . else she is too stubborn to admit it." Arod stamped his front hooves on the straw covered floor.  
  
"And what do you suggest I do?" Legolas asked.  
  
The horse reared up slightly on his hind legs and tossed his luxurious mane. Cocking his head to the side, The Elf crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow, amused.  
  
"Aye, your suggestion has merit; alas, were it so simple. I do not believe she will allow me to just . . . 'mount' her, my friend." Legolas said dryly. The horse neighed and pawed the straw.  
  
"I must court the lady's favor." The Elf explained. Arod snorted and twitched his ears.  
  
"Soon, my friend. Very soon," the Elf-Prince assured his equine friend, wrapping his arms around his neck.  
  
Before his Elf-friend left, the horse gently bit the Wood Elf's shoulder in affection. Giving the steed a final pat on his strong neck, Legolas collected his weapons and bid Arod good night, taking one of the many scenic paths back to his assigned quarters. Even at night, Imladris' beauty could not be ignored, for an abundance of night blooming flowers lined the walkways, their pale blooms proudly unfurled, their scents perfuming the air. The Elf's excellent vision recognized the yellow flowers of the evening primrose, the white, sweetly scented petals of the climbing moonflower. Among the white blossoms, the red and pink blooms identified the fragrant annual, Nicotiana.  
  
Perhaps one night the Wood Elf could persuade Jordan to walk a path with him. Legolas realized he wanted to discover all there was to know about her. Now that the immediate concern of the Orcs was past, he meant to unravel the mystery that was Jordan Waters. Hopefully, he would be able to unravel more than that. Legolas certainly intended to try. A smile graced his lips as he imagined the possibilities. In his quarters, Legolas unbuckled his weapons, cleaning and inspecting them before availing himself to his private bathing chamber. Drying his lithe body, the Elf dressed automatically, his thoughts with the woman whose abilities and actions raised questions, yet whose answers revealed nothing. A puzzle that intrigued him.  
  
Wondering how Gimli fared, the golden Elf searched for the Elf-Friend. Legolas found the Dwarf enjoying a well-earned repast in the common dining hall. Unlike the Elf, Gimli had not bothered to change; his helm lay on the bench next to him; his double-headed axe leaned again a carven stone pillar; even in Imladris, the Dwarf's weapons were always within easy reach. Gimli pushed a platter of food towards Legolas. With a smile of thanks, the Elf reached for a round loaf and tore off a sizeable chunk of the soft, warm bread, spreading it with clover honey and almond butter as a she-Elf placed a flagon of water and ale before the Prince. Legolas thanked the maiden, who blushed her pleasure before discretely withdrawing.  
  
"Are you well?" Legolas asked.  
  
"Aye, Lad; t'was but a simple walk in the woods," Gimli replied, waving his eating dagger before stabbing a succulent piece of roast. "The vermin have been dealt with, they have."  
  
Amused, Legolas sat back and watched his friend eat. Breadcrumbs and bits of meat clung to his bushy beard. Reaching for his beer, Gimli drank with relish and set his pewter stein down with a bang; the platters and other dishes jumped and rattled, the Elf's water sloshed over the rim of his goblet. Legolas sighed, and mopped up the spill with his linen napkin.  
  
Dwarves were hardy creatures, no doubt; the one before him was no different in that regard. What he lacked in polish and finesse, Gimli more than made up for in other areas. The friends lapsed into the familiar routine of easy conversation peppered with the occasional lively difference of opinion. During an interlude of companionable silence, Legolas studied the Elf-friend, who was busy gnawing the meat from a joint of mutton. Chewing noisily, Gimli blotted the grease from his lips with his wrist guard.  
  
"And how is your Lady?" the Dwarf asked. Legolas carved a slice of cheese from a thick slab.  
  
"She is well. I left her at the House. No doubt Jordan is in her quarters as we speak," Legolas answered.  
  
"You seem to always know her whereabouts, Lad," the Dwarf said casually as he gnawed the meat from the bone.  
  
"Jordan... interests me," Legolas said. Gimli smiled and smacked his lips.  
  
"I know. We have had this conversation before, Lad." Gimli reminded his friend before he spat out a tough piece of gristle.  
  
"We have had many conversations, Fangon (bearded one). To which are you referring to?"  
  
"My asking how your Lady fares." The Dwarf replied. The Elf simply smiled. After a moment, he answered.  
  
"I hope we have many more." Legolas said.  
  
Gimli looked at his friend, his ruddy features relaxed into a smile. "If that is what you desire, then I wish it for you as well, Mellon."  
  
The friends enjoyed their simple meal together, glad in each other's company. The past skirmish served to remind the Free Races that evil must never again be allowed to run unchecked; to do so would dishonor the memories of those who had fallen on the battle fields, sacrificing their lives for the good of Middle-earth.  
  
Jordan stared into the night; a speck of movement caught her attention. Blinking, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the dark courtyard below. There it was again! Now that she was attuned to it, more lights hovered in the distance. Tiny lights floated gently in the darkness, beckoning her; curious, she stared at it, wondering what it could be. Intrigued, Jordan slid her feet into slippers. Weariness forgotten, the Immortal went down the stairs and into the courtyard below, following the lights that seemed to float just beyond her. The woman's steps carried her further away from her quarters.  
  
"Good grief, there are so many . . . fireflies!" Jordan muttered in awe.  
  
Scattered about were clusters of the minute insects, their phosphorescent lights glowed gently. At ground level, their tiny numbers increased tenfold. Smiling with delight, Jordan slowly turned in a circle; her arms outspread, imagining the insects as tiny fairies dancing around her to the music of the night.  
  
I don't care how long I'm here for. I'm going to enjoy it as long as it lasts; whatever it is between Legolas and I, and however long I have with him, I'll take it she thought.  
  
Not wanting to disturb the romancing fireflies, Jordan was about to return to her quarters when she felt the Buzz intensify. She hadn't thought to put a cloak or robe over her sleeping shift. Why, oh why didn't she think about that before hand? The Immortal was in the middle of the open courtyard, practically naked in her sheer gown with nothing to hide behind.  
  
Crap! she thought.  
  
"Okay, calm down. You can either run for the stairs, or run for the stairs. Not much of a choice," she told herself.  
  
Jordan sprinted towards her quarters. Reaching the stairway, Jordan took the steps two at a time, clutching her side, as she tried to soothe the stitch. Kicking off her slippers, Jordan threw herself onto the bed, breathless. After a moment she laughed. No doubt Lord Elrond will hear of her late night streaking escapade. Maybe Collette was right; she needed to have fun.  
  
#  
  
Le Blues Bar  
Paris  
  
Joe Dawson stood behind the counter, wiping a shot glass dry before adding it to a plastic crate filled with clean and dry shot glasses. It was quiet in the bar; the lunch crowd was gone, leaving a much-welcomed lull. Only the regular bar flies remained. In a corner, a rough looking kid with dreadlocks sat on a stool tuning his guitar before he launched into a medley of blues. An older gentleman nursed his drink at one end of the bar. Seated in a booth, a young couple talked quietly over their drinks, absorbed in one another. The Watcher looked up as the door swung open.  
  
Framed in the doorway were two tall silhouettes; he'd recognize them  
anywhere, even without the overcoats. Joe couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. For someone over five millennia, the Old Man looked good, while he himself felt the occasional ache and pain that reminded him of the inevitable ravages of time. Methos slipped onto a stool and nodded at the Watcher. Even now, Joe sometimes found it difficult to believe the Eldest had once been Death. The fact that the former Horseman and the Highlander forged a friendship, was equally puzzling, yet proved that even Immortals could change. The Watcher reached beneath the counter and produced a tall stein, filling it from the tap. The suds spilt over the rim as he pushed it towards the Ancient One.  
  
"I could kiss you," the Ancient said.  
  
"Please don't. Paris is gay -- I'm not," the Watcher replied.  
  
"Only if you keep them coming. I've suddenly developed a powerful thirst." Methos said.  
  
The Watcher gave him an exasperated look. Leaning against the counter, the Highlander greeted the man.  
  
"There's something wrong with this picture. Aren't you supposed to be watching me?" Duncan asked.  
  
"Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but face it, Mac -- sometimes you're just not that interesting." The Watcher replied with a cheeky grin.  
  
Duncan gave his Watcher a mock wounded look as he sat on a stool. Joe pushed a bowl of nuts and pretzels before his friends.  
  
"And hi back," the Watcher said sarcastically.  
  
"Hi Joe." Duncan said. He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.  
  
"So what're you guys up to?" Joe asked.  
  
"We're here to see you, Joe; thought MacLeod could use a break from the . . . search." Methos said. Joe nodded, then looked at the Ancient appraisingly. The older Immortal seemed a bit . . .off.  
  
"What's your problem?" he asked.  
  
"We took the speedboat here." Methos said gloomily. Joe shook his head, chuckling softly.  
  
"Hot damn! You managed to get the Old Man to sail the high seas?" Joe asked the Highlander incredulously.  
  
"If we took the Concorde here, he can take a short boat ride." Duncan  
said, his voice calm. The Watcher whistled.  
  
"Isn't that kinda pricey?" Joe asked, with his eyebrows raised.  
  
"It is. Adam booked it with my credit card," Duncan said, glaring at  
the Eldest before the Ancient could answer.  
  
Methos drained his stein and pushed it towards the Watcher, an  
innocent smile on his face.  
  
"Someone has to help you spend your money. Why not me?" Methos asked,  
as if it were the most logical thing in the world.  
  
"Yeah, well I don't recall asking for volunteers, Methos." Came the  
Highlander's exasperated reply.  
  
"'Adam', MacLeod – 'Adam'." The Ancient reminded his friend.  
  
Watching the Immortals bicker back and forth like two old biddies, Joe  
smiled as he refilled Methos' drink and set a glass on the counter. Plunking several ice cubes into it, he produced a metal mixing glass and measured into it scotch, sweet vermouth, bitters and simple syrup. The Watcher stirred the concoction together and strained it into the glass, which he placed before the Highlander.  
  
"Ha ha, Joe – very funny," Duncan said before taking a sip. It wasn't bad. He took another sip.  
  
"What?" the Watcher said, innocently before laughing outright. The drink he'd mixed was called 'The Flying Scotsman'.  
  
"You've got balls, Old Man," Joe said, addressing the Ancient.  
  
"I've got more than that, Joe," Methos said cryptically. Turning to  
the younger Immortal, Joe's face became serious.  
  
"I talked with Micky D again. Far as he can tell, there's still nothing in Jordie's Chronicles that'll show she'd run. Nothing he's aware of, at least. Unless she seriously pissed somebody off. Be kinda hard to slip that by a Watcher. A good one, that is – and I can tell you that Micky D is good. I checked them out myself, and he's right. What 'bout you, Mac? You're at a stand still too?"  
  
"You don't miss much, do you?" Methos interjected.  
  
The Old Man was still annoyed with the boat ride. MacLeod knew how much he hated the water, yet insisted on that mode of travel. The beers hadn't improved his mood... yet.  
  
"You ready to pay off your tab?" Joe shot back as he refilled his stein. Methos grinned as he busied himself with his beer.  
  
"Joe, I wish there was something more I could do; I wish I was with her. I feel like I'm running around in circles. I don't know what else to do," Duncan sighed. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.  
  
"Here's what you can do: stop repeating yourself for one. We got the point, Mac. You know, maybe you need to do what the Old Man says; some things need to be waited out," Joe deftly refilled the Ancient's stein yet again as he fixed the Highlander with a stern look when the Immortal glowered at him.  
  
"I didn't stay to stop looking. You know I care for her too Mac," the Watcher said quietly, fixing his charge with a glare to match. After a moment, the Highlander nodded. The Watcher decided a change of topic would good.  
  
"Maybe you guys'll wanna check out the Renn Fest that's going on. It's scheduled for three weeks. How long are you planning on staying?"  
  
"Don't know. We'll probably do that. But I want to check on Gregory first and see how he's doing. Wanna come?" the Highlander asked. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher. Joe glared at the Ancient One as he filled his stein again.  
  
"Why don't I just attach a hose from the tap to your mouth?" the Watcher asked sarcastically.  
  
"That's the smartest thing you've ever said, Joe," Methos returned. The boat ride was bad enough; the conversation between his friends wasn't exactly thrilling him, either.  
  
"He seemed like a nice guy. Sounds like a plan. Gimme a sec; I need to pass the torch." Tossing the dishtowel on the counter, Joe reached for his cane and called for the head waitress. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.  
  
"Bar's closed, Old Man," Joe said with a grin.  
  
"Damn." Methos replied.  
  
Tipping the driver, Duncan watched the taxi pull away from the curb before catching up with his companions. Looking around the fashionable neighborhood, ritzy shops were squeezed in between high-end eateries. Strolling down the rue, Duncan stopped outside a boutique displaying expensive ladies' lingerie. He sighed, for he frequently patronized the boutique many times in the past, purchasing several frothy creations for Tessa.  
  
Unfortunately for the pretty negligee, and fortunately for them, Tessa only had the chance to model the purchase briefly -- before it quickly ended up on the floor, or strewn elsewhere. Now they were sitting in the barge, in the drawers where she'd left them. Duncan cleared his throat and walked on. He walked for half a block when his steps slowed.  
  
The Buzz alerted the Immortals to another's presence; they exchanged glances before Duncan followed the pull of the Buzz. Strolling a bit further, the Scot paused outside Gregory's shop. Here was the source. Duncan walked in without hesitating; his companions paused outside.  
  
"The Boy Scout just does not give up, does he, Joe?" The Watcher shrugged and followed his charge inside. Methos lingered outside; confident the Highlander could handle the situation. His dark eyes lifted upwards.  
  
"Arda's Treasures. How... appropriate," Methos murmured to himself. Studying the sign, he counted the stars above a naked silver tree before following Joe inside.  
  
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You won't be needing that," the Highlander said in a low voice, indicating the silver rapier the woman stood near.  
  
Methos found the Highlander and his Watcher inside the surprisingly cavernous store, as well as an unknown Immortal. He couldn't fault her for looking nervous. The Ancient One glanced at Joe, who was pretending to study a framed map in the far corner of the room. Close enough to see and hear, far enough to be discrete. Methos studied the woman; tall, ash- blonde hair and brown eyes. Coolly professional, she could be at home in the antique shop, or a library. Her eyes flicked over to him, studying him as well, and then to Joe, confident a Challenge wasn't forthcoming.  
  
"I have heard of you," she said. Duncan didn't to ask what she knew. His reputation preceded him; whether that was good or bad was a matter of opinion.  
  
"I'm looking for Gregory. Is he around?" Duncan asked.  
  
"I am sorry, Monsieur MacLeod. Monsieur McGulloch is away at the moment." The Highlander didn't bother to hide his disappointment.  
  
"He is, however, expecting you. Monsieur McGulloch left word that you please wait for him in his office." Duncan turned to Methos, a pleased grin on his face. The Ancient took the opportunity to step forward.  
  
"Hello. I'm Adam." He gave her a smile he knew the ladies found irresistible. It worked, for the frost in her light eyes warmed, if only slightly.  
  
"I am Jacqueline." She offered her hand to the Ancient, who took it, raising her knuckles to his lips.  
  
Duncan rolled his eyes. It was rare that he was unable to win a woman over. To see Methos do it so easily wounded his ego. Just a little; Duncan wasn't sure what he'd done to offend her, for he felt she was pointedly ignoring him.  
  
"Enchanté, Madame. . ?"  
  
"Mademoiselle Dupree," she supplied. Methos smiled before releasing her hand.  
  
"Mdme. Dupree, I'd like to introduce you to a . . . colleague of mine, Monsieur Dawson." Catching the Watcher's attention, Methos waved him over, and then performed the introductions. Giving Joe a ghost of a smile, Jacqueline addressed Methos.  
  
"Wait here, s'il vous plait (please)." Swinging her cool gaze to the Highlander, she assessed him once more.  
  
"Follow me, s'il vous plait (please)." She disappeared around the corner. Giving his friends a bemused grin, Duncan followed.  
  
Jacqueline led the Highlander down a wide hallway, coming to a stop before a heavy door. Pushing it open, she motioned for him to go in.  
  
"This is his private study. Please make yourself comfortable. There is a wet bar in the corner."  
  
"You are quite a joy, Mademoiselle," the Highlander said softly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He wasn't up to humoring cold women just now. The one he was searching for was enough to deal with at the moment.  
  
Jacqueline left without further comment, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. Duncan shook his head. Studying the door before him, he wondered what type of wood it was. Too golden for birch, too thick for eucalyptus, nothing at all like mahogany or other hardwoods; it was an interesting silver-gold in color, its texture almost warm to the touch. Interesting. The Highlander took a closer look. There were runes carven onto the doors surface, as well as strange, calligraphic letters unrecognizable yet vaguely familiar. Where did he see those markings? Try as he might, he couldn't recall, though he felt he should know. Taking a step back, Duncan blinked. And blinked again. The markings were gone. Touching the door, smooth wood was all he felt.  
  
"Joe'd better check his bottles. There's definitely something wrong with the liquor," he told himself.  
  
It took more than a dozen beers to get him drunk, and he'd only had the one mixed drink. Yep; it was the alcohol. Dismissing it as a trick of the light, Duncan looked around the room. Antiques of all kinds were scattered throughout the room in an ordered chaos. It reminded him of Connor's secret chamber that was filled with priceless artifacts and souvenirs of his long life -- all of which were now part of Duncan's own private collection.  
  
Continuing his survey of the room, a heavily embroidered tapestry caught the Scot's eye. Duncan was drawn to it. The rich fabric was deep red in color, almost maroon. The embroidery depicting a great battle scene gleamed richly, and swayed ever so slightly, making the Man on the ground seem to wave his broken sword at the menacing black figure towering over him. Instinctively, the Highlander knew there was something behind the tapestry. Reaching out to draw it aside, the Clansman hesitated.  
  
"If Gregory wanted to keep people out, he would've had a door instead," Duncan told himself.  
  
The Highlander felt like a kid about to take a cookie from the jar. Curiosity aroused, he cautiously drew the partition aside. In the center of the windowless room, a single shaft of light fell upon the stone pillar, illuminating the dark cloth. Something lay beneath the cloth. Duncan felt compelled to enter. Of their own accord, his footsteps brought him directly in front of the pillar. The black cloth had a silver tree; unlike the sign outside the shop, this one was full of leaves, as well as the stars above it.  
  
The Clansman stretched forth his hand and drew off the cloth; beneath it, a ball rested on a black velvet pillow. Duncan couldn't help but smile. A crystal ball, of all things, albeit a black one. Funny, Duncan never thought Gregory subscribed to such charlatan tricks. The Highlander touched its cold surface.  
  
"Jordie, are you in there?" he murmured.  
  
If only it were that simple. Too bad these things never worked.  
  
"Crystal ball, tell me all," he commanded, half-jokingly.  
  
Nothing happened. Willing Jordan to appear, Duncan continued to stare at the glassy surface that remained unchanged. Giving up, the Immortal was about to leave when he hesitated.  
  
"...you have the Sorcerer Nakano in you. . . " Methos' words came back to him.  
  
"What the hell," Duncan said aloud.  
  
Fixing an image of Jordan in his mind, the Highlander concentrated. Duncan reached deep within himself, searching for the spirit of the Immortal, Nakano. The Highlander called forth the Sorcerer's knowledge... concentrating... willing Jordan to appear. Faintly at first, he felt a tingle; it grew stronger, then spread through his body until his blood felt like it was rushing in his veins. In response, before him, the surface of the glass seemed to move.  
  
Wispy tendrils of smoke appeared, swirling lazily, writhing before taking shape. Duncan was riveted in place by the object before him; he couldn't react to anything, not even to the Buzz, announcing the arrival of another Immortal. A small part of his mind knew between Methos and Joe, they could handle any situation that would arise. The images became distinct. It was like watching a silent movie for no words could be heard. Duncan's eyes widened in amazement and the black cloth fell from his slack fingers to flutter soundlessly to the floor.  
  
A/N: (embarrassed grin) This update wouldn't have happened, if not for Kris' gentle reminder. I hadn't realized it'd been that long since my post. Thank you , Kris! Acknowledgement(s) and kudos to the following: PaperCrane and Silreth for their Beta skills, Danielle for her help/answers re: HL:TS, and last but not least, to all you wonderful readers who continue to watch this story and take the time to send in a review. For the Anonymous Ones: I really appreciate your taking the time to send a word or two. The reviews I've received are very encouraging. 


	17. So It Begins

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
So It Begins  
  
Lying on the bed, Jordan's breathing slowly returned to normal. In the solitude of her room, the Immortal thought about the extraordinary turn her life had taken. So much had happened since her arrival in Middle Earth. Jordan was there to stay, and she felt at peace with her decision to simply let go and see where this adventure led.  
  
Forced to find alternative methods of entertainment, she often resorted to serenading herself at night. Rolling onto her back, the Immortal sang softly as she tucked her arms behind her head and closed her eyes, the crackle and pop of the logs as they burned her only accompaniment.  
  
Raven hair and ruby lips  
  
sparks fly from her finger tips  
  
Echoed voices in the night  
  
she's a restless spirit on an endless flight  
  
wooo hooo witchy woman, see how  
  
high she flies  
  
woo hoo witchy woman she got  
  
the moon in her eye  
  
The Immortal's eyes flew open as the lyrics faded into silence. "Better take care of it now before you forget." She told herself.  
  
Jordan sat up and quickly crawled off the bed. Humming the tune as she opened the armoire, she pulled out the first aid satchel. Rummaging inside for clean bandages, she quickly shed her night shift and stood nude before the mirror, deliberating the best way to go about her task. Her wounds had completely healed, and the Immortal knew that in itself would raise questions. Questions Jordan was still reluctant to answer.  
  
"Okay, this'll be interesting." She said, wishing for another pair of hands to help. Dressing her arm by herself will certainly prove to be quite a challenge.  
  
"Need tape . . . " Jordan mused aloud. Searching the pockets of her overcoat, she came up with empty candy wrappers, a matchbook with a phone number on it, unopened chocolates, and a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Picking up the matchbook, Jordan stared at it.  
  
"Were you with me all along?" she wondered. Jordan thought back to that day in Trollshaw Forest, sure she had no way of starting a fire.  
  
"I guess I'll be able to start one now." She said as she discarded the matches. Jordan put her hands on her hips and studied the of odds and ends before her.  
  
"Where is it?" she wondered. The Immortal impatiently flipped her shortened hair back over her shoulder. The one-inch roll of plastic tape ranked high among the most useful tools of her profession, and she usually kept a roll within reach, no matter if it was in her scrub jacket pocket, purse or overcoat.  
  
Hoping against hope, Jordan checked her other pockets; the Immortal tossed aside a key ring, a pack of chewing gum, and a recently acquired ticket - the consequence of leaving her car in the disabled parking space.  
  
"Oh no - I forgot about this!" Jordan wailed. Reading the ticket, she uttered several choice expletives, then took a deep, calming breath.  
  
"Well, can't do anything about it now. I've got other things to worry about." Jordan shrugged as she tossed the candy wrappers and ticket into the hearth, watching the slips of paper shrivel and blacken in the flames as she crooned softly to herself.  
  
She held me spellbound in the night  
  
dancing shadows and firelight  
  
crazy laughter in another  
  
room and she drove herself to madness  
  
with a silver spoon  
  
woo hoo witchy woman see how high she flies  
  
woo hoo witchy woman she got the moon in her eye  
  
Many minutes later, after a thorough and unsuccessful search of her pockets, the Immortal used her chin to hold the bandage in place, and with her free hand and teeth, carefully struggled to tighten the bandage around her arm and tie a knot. Flexing her arm, rotating it in a wide circle, she was finally satisfied it would stay in place. Next, she considered her fully healed shoulder; without tape, the awkward location presented a more difficult task for the Immortal to disguise. Jordan worried her bottom lip, wondering how to solve the dilemma when her eyes wandered back to the satchel. Inspiration struck. Spreading the contents onto the table, the Immortal pawed thru it, separating the phials, bandages, packets of dried herbs and other medicines into small piles. After testing several pots of ointment, she found a sticky paste that doubled nicely as an adhesive. Jordan continued to sing off key as she worked.  
  
Well I know you want a lover,  
  
let me tell your brother, she's been sleeping  
  
in the Devil's bed.  
  
And there's some rumors going round  
  
someone's underground  
  
she can rock you in the nighttime  
  
'til your skin turns red  
  
woo hoo witchy woman  
  
see how high she flies  
  
woo hoo witchy woman  
  
she got the moon in her eye  
  
Striking a menacing pose, Jordan curled her fingers into claws and hissed at herself in the mirror before dissolving into laughter. Sobering, the Immortal used a shuriken to cut a clean linen cloth into a four-inch by four-inch square. Smearing the paste onto the edges, she pressed it onto her shoulder and waited. Rolling her shoulder forward and backward, Jordan was pleased to see it remained in place. Donning her nightshift, the Immortal returned her star to its sheath, repacked the satchel and stowed it in the armoire. With a huge yawn that almost dislocated her jaw, Jordan stretched and climbed back into bed. Snuggling into her pillow, she closed her eyes.  
  
Emerging from the tree line, Legolas strode into the open courtyard where the object of his desire stood but moments before. He almost called out to her, to stay her flight, but did not. To do so would deprive him the pleasure of watching her gown form to her body as she ran to her quarters. Legolas surveyed Jordan's quarters, contemplating the gauzy curtains that waved invitingly in the soft night breeze.  
  
By nature, Elves were patient creatures, and Legolas was no different; however, tonight he was determined there would be some sort of resolution to their 'situation'; the attraction between the Elf and the woman was undeniably mutual, and disconcertingly powerful. Never mind Legolas had never before been drawn to a human female, or that she was otherworldly. The Mirkwood Prince knew without a doubt Jordan wanted him as he wanted her.  
  
Unfortunately, she was too stubborn to concede, or, at the very least -- quite reluctant to follow the natural progression of said attraction. This game they played would end. Tonight. Squaring his shoulders, the Elf's blue eyes burned bright as he concentrated, willing her to appear.  
  
: : Tula amin (Come to me) . . . : :  
  
"Go 'way, Duncan -- I'm trying to sleep." She mumbled, snuggling deeper into her pillow. The Immortal was almost asleep, drifting towards the twilight state where the fine line between dreams and reality blurred. A shiver of thought brushed across the edge of her conscious mind  
  
: : Tula amin (Come to me) . . . : :  
  
Startled, Jordan's eyes popped open. After a moment, her confused mind registered that she was indeed awake and sitting up in bed. Puzzled and slightly disoriented, the Immortal looked around the room. She saw nothing amiss; cocking her head to the side, she heard nothing unusual.  
  
"Okaaaay. Couldn't have been the pepperoni pizza; it must be something in the stew." She grumbled to herself. Jordan felt slightly foolish, certain it was a trick of her imagination.  
  
: : Tula amin (Come to me). . . : :  
  
The Immortal was about to lie down when she felt it again; this time, she couldn't deny it. The decision lay before her: ignore it and stay in her nice, warm bed - after all, didn't she deserve it after today fighting Orcs all day? Or . . . she could do a little investigative work.  
  
"This is definitely weird. Curiosity killed the cat." Jordan warned herself.  
  
* * Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back * * her imagination answered back smugly.  
  
: : Tula amin (Come to me). . . : :  
  
The decision was made. Whatever it was, it enticed her, as compelling as a siren's call. She had to find the source. Before she could think more on the matter, Jordan climbed out of bed. Reaching for her wrap, she pulled the sheer material on and slid her feet into her slippers; standing still, the Immortal waited. The feeling grew more insistent. What on Middle Earth was going on? It hadn't come from within the room, for she was most assuredly alone. Her gaze snapped to the open doors, the gauzy curtains billowed softly in the night breeze. Thinking about the horror movies she occasionally would watch alone late at night, Jordan's heart beat faster.  
  
* * What if. . .what if Orcs managed to invade Rivendell and are  
holding the Elves hostage? * * she thought to herself. Jordan's imagination conjured up other scenarios. The Immortal silently retrieved her Katana and stealthily edged towards the balcony doors.  
  
: : Tula amin (Come to me) . . . : :  
  
Legolas allowed himself a smile of triumph when his excellent vision  
detected movement; after a moment, Jordan appeared on the balcony -- what in Manwë's name was she doing? His smile turned to one of quizzical amusement. The woman's curved blade flashed; she looked to be searching for . . . a foe?  
  
Gripping her sword securely with both hands, Jordan did a quick perimeter check, listening for anything unusual. Slowly easing the curtains back, the Immortal stepped outside, keeping close to the wall; she looked up towards the roof and saw nothing. A glance in all directions showed nothing and no one. She thought about the thriller flicks where the score built up the suspense, right before the monster or villain jumped out of the shadows.  
  
She hated those movies with a passion, but it didn't stop her from dragging a reluctant Collette with her to the theatres and screaming herself silly -- sometimes showering the other movie goers around her with popcorn or soda, or whatever else she happened to be holding at the time-much to their great annoyance. With her heart pounding in her ears, Jordan crept towards the balcony, praying that nothing jumped out at her over the railing. Peering over the rail, in the courtyard below stood a figure, waiting. Legolas. Surprised, Jordan lowered her sword and pinched herself hard on her bottom to make sure she was indeed awake. He was still there, the moonlight painting his pale hair silver. Legolas looked up at the woman. Would she come?  
  
Jordan stared at the Elf for several long moments before she turned and went back inside. In the courtyard, Legolas stared after her, hardly able to believe she had left. There was no way she could not have seen him. Unless . . . he been presumptuous about her feelings for him?  
  
Elves were unaffected by time's passage as Men were wont to, and the Elf- Prince had seen many leaf falls and seasons turn, hardly giving them more than a brief thought, yet he acutely felt each minute that passed without Jordan's reappearance. Legolas couldn't help but wonder if going to her had been a grievous error on his part. Confusion and uncertainty filled the Elf - emotions he had not felt in many, many years - especially when dealing with a maiden.  
  
A/N: (chopping sounds) Sorry to cut it off here, but its been brought to my attention that the previous post(s) was/were a wee bit long, so I'll try to keep them to a more manageable length. "Witchy Woman"/The Eagles is what Jordan sang in the beginning of the chapter. Great album. Credits/Kudos to: Raq/Chris K. for info re: Beta/firearms, PaperCrane for Beta'ing. And of course, my gratitude to all of you who continue to follow this story - more so if you have sent a review! Aislin2, I tried to reply to your review, but my message(s) kept bouncing back. If anyone's interested in translating some English/Common into authentic Elvish/Sindarin, I'd appreciate it. Please contact me via review/email and we'll make arrangements. I have looked for Elvish language resources other than the Grey Havens, but I didn't find any that were user friendly; informative, yes, but not friendly to my limited abilities. So, until there's someone out there willing to volunteer their services, I'm sticking w/the GH as my source for Elvish words/phrases. My apologies to those who object. 


	18. The Kiss

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
* * * W A R N I N G * * * This chapter is contains some NC-17 stuff.  
  
The Kiss  
  
Legolas. Elf of her fantasies. He of pointed ears. He, who had a way of making her heart skip a beat with the mere thought of him. He, whose blue eyes put the sea to shame. The only Elf in Rivendell, whose single glance effortlessly and completely held her enthralled, and caused her body to tingle and feel excitement that she only dreamt about. Hugging herself as she stared into the dancing flames, Jordan wondered at Legolas' presence in the courtyard. Was it coincidence? Did he just happen by? Was he the one 'calling' her? If so, what exactly did it mean? What did it all mean? Pacing the room, Jordan addressed her shadow on the wall.  
  
"What's he doing out there?" she asked. Her shadow had no answer for her. Jordan snorted. If Collette caught her talking to her shadow, the blonde might say that her friend needed to check herself into the psychiatric unit for observation.  
  
"Some help you are." Jordan muttered to her silhouette with her hands on her hips. It just mimicked her.  
  
"Only one way to find out - ask him!" the demon on her shoulder whispered encouragingly.  
  
"This is crazy." The sane part of her said aloud.  
  
"Just go with it!" her impish side prodded.  
  
"I'm dreaming." her rational side provided.  
  
"Then stay asleep, damn it! Don't. Wake. Up!" the imp instructed.  
  
"What am I supposed to do -- what should I do?" the Immortal wondered aloud, indecisive.  
  
"Don't bother - he's probably gone. Y'had your chance!" her reckless side huffed snidely.  
  
Jordan climbed back into bed and pulled the covers beneath her chin. Determined to not read too much into the matter, she closed her eyes and groaned, for her mind thoughtfully provided a vivid image of Legolas' face. The Immortal couldn't suppress the shiver that ran thru her like quicksilver, for she saw in the Elf danger and a threat. A threat to more than just her peace of mind. The Immortal stared up at the ceiling and thought about their 'encounters', and readily admitted that she found them quite . . . enjoyable.  
  
* * What would it lead to? * * Jordan wondered.  
  
She had no idea. She questioned the wisdom of further involvement with the Elf, for it would only make it that much more difficult to leave when the time came - whenever that was. If the Immortal was completely honest with herself, she suspected that this . . . dalliance with the Elf could easily leap beyond the bounds of mere attraction.   
  
* * So much for keeping my distance. * * she thought to herself with  
a sigh. That vow didn't last long.  
  
With her past experiences still fresh in her mind, Jordan was cautious to pursue where her actions would lead, yet a part of her yearned to follow through and discover for herself what it was the Elf offered.. The Immortal threw back the sheets. Unable to contain her curiosity, she put her slippers on and went to see if he was still there - he was.   
  
Real. Waiting. Drawn to the Elf like a moth to flame, Jordan did not remember walking down the steps. One minute she was on the balcony looking down at Legolas, the next she found herself gazing up at him. Attended by dozens of fireflies hovering protectively around the Wood Elf, their tiny lights lent a magical aura to the already dreamlike feeling.  
  
Legolas was still wondering if he was mistaken in coming to her, when Jordan reappeared. By the Valar, in all his long years, she was just a maiden, but completely unlike any maiden he had ever known! Unusual. Intriguing. Intriguing. Amusing. Stubborn. Those were just a few of the traits that came to mind when he thought of her. Jordan had somehow managed to insinuate herself under his skin and into his thoughts with a vengeance.  
  
In the moonlight, Legolas' keen eyes drank in the sight of the woman as she descended the steps and came to stand before him. His eyes lingered at the bandages on her arm and shoulder, followed the shadows and curves of her body. Despite her lopsided hair, the Elf found her utterly desirable and innocently seductive in her gossamer nightclothes. His thoughts returned to the battle in the forest, recalling how her fitted clothing outlined every curve of hip, waist and leg, emphasized the swell of her breasts, hugged her shapely bottom.  
  
Legolas held his hand out to her. Jordan didn't hesitate. Taking her hand in his, the Elf turned her around and pulled her firmly against his body. She fit perfectly against him as he held her hands. Looking over her shoulder, she was about to speak when Legolas gently shushed her. The Immortal was thankful she had bathed. Afraid to ruin the moment, Jordan didn't move or speak, acutely aware of the feel of his body against her back, as he rubbed his face against her hair. She wondered if he could hear the wild beating of her heart, for the nearness of him was almost too much for her.  
  
Legolas ran his hands up and down her arms, smiling to himself when he felt the gooseflesh thru the thin material of her wrap. He held her hands in his and turned her palms up. A smile stole across her face as fireflies lit in her cupped hands, their pale lights flashed, shining out between her fingers. Legolas' arms encircled her waist. They silently watched the hovering fireflies' flash in return. The Elf gently combed his hands thru Jordan's hair, his fingers massaging her scalp; she relaxed under his touch, enjoying his ministrations as more winged insects flitted about in their mating dance, allowing the Elf and the Immortal to witness their flirtatious ritual, their luminescent forms flashing at different intervals as they joined together.  
  
"You do not rest." Legolas' quiet voice sent shivers up and down her arms. His warm hands had traveled down to her neck, then to her shoulders. Jordan swallowed, for her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry.  
  
"I, uh. . . couldn't sleep." she replied. Behind her, the Elf's lips curved into a smile.  
  
"Are you well?" he inquired.  
  
* * More like hot and bothered. * * Jordan almost said, for his hands were sliding down to her waist.  
  
"I'm okay." she replied faintly. Legolas' long, elegant fingers  
gripped her hips in a disturbingly intimate manner, sending a flush of heat thru her.  
  
"Your wounds?" he murmured in her hair.  
  
"My wounds. . .?" Jordan repeated dreamily, his hands were most distracting. Jordan was so caught up in the moment and the Elf, that his words almost didn't register. Belatedly she remembered the reason for her bandages.  
  
"My wounds . . . my wounds! Oh, er - they're fine." she said, hoping the Elf didn't notice her stumble.  
  
* * Nice, Jordie - how could you forget?! * * she berated herself silently;  
  
"I regret I was not able to reach you in time. Gimli did what he thought best." Legolas said quietly into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek.  
  
As his words sank in, the Immortal felt suddenly, painfully self-conscious -- for she had actually forgotten about her . . .involuntary haircut. Stiffening in his arms, she attempted to pull loose, but Legolas' firm hold kept her in place. Turning her to face him, Jordan kept her eyes on the ground, her cheeks burning.  
  
Jordan shuddered to think how she must look. Lifting her chin so he could look in her eyes, Legolas held the shorn hair in his free hand, rubbing it between his fingers, he raised the dark lock to his lips and kissed it.  
  
"Lle naa vanima." He murmured.  
  
"In Common, please."  
  
"You are beautiful."  
  
"Oh.thank you." Feeling bold, Jordan's fingertips lightly touched the sensitive tips of his pointed ears with open fascination. The Elf closed his eyes and trembled slightly in response, for her innocently curious touch affected him greatly. Legolas felt the blood rush to that part of him that burned for her. His leggings were rapidly becoming most uncomfortable.  
  
Bending his golden head, Legolas' lips whispered against hers in a feather soft kiss. Testing . . .questioning. Jordan closed her eyes, opening them in disappointment when it ended.  
  
* Carpe diem!* Her mind shouted at her.  
  
Of their own volition, her arms encircled the Elf's neck and pulled his head down to hers. Legolas' tongue lightly flicked over her lips, his teeth gently nibbled her lips before his tongue pushed past them to taste the sweetness of her mouth. Jordan melted against him, feeling like she was floating on a cloud. Nothing else mattered. He filled her senses, smelling like the fragrance after the rain-fresh, clean and earthy.  
  
"Do you trust me, Jordan?"  
  
"Yes." she replied faintly, wanting more of his kisses.  
  
"Will you surrender yourself to me?" he said softly.  
  
"Mmmm..?" His lips and hands had stopped all coherent thoughts from forming in her mind.  
  
"Lle lava (do you yield)?" Pulling back from her, Legolas held her away from him, looking at her intently, his breathing was slightly ragged. He captured her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes, searching for an answer. Jordan couldn't think intelligently. The feelings the Elf stirred within her was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Was it possible for your senses to spin? Because that's what hers were doing. Dimly, she was aware he'd asked her a question; for the life of her, Jordan couldn't remember what it was he had asked, for thinking was the last thing on her mind. The Elf raised an eyebrow, amused. Obviously, her attention wasn't on conversation.  
  
"Melamin?"  
  
"Hmm?" she breathed; Jordan's lovely face was tilted up, intently studying the Elf's sensuous lips, Jordan's own were slightly parted, as she waited expectantly for another kiss. Legolas gave a low chuckle. Giving her a gentle shake, Jordan's eyes fluttered to his. What was wrong? The Elf repeated his question.  
  
"Will you surrender yourself to me?" he asked again. Jordan blinked; it took a moment for her to comprehend the question, for the fog of desire clouded her mind. Sometimes his Old English-like speech was puzzling to the modern Immortal.  
  
Surrender? She'd wave a white flag if she had one. She'd surrender the P.I.N. number to her savings and checking account in a heartbeat, or the shirt on her back if he'd ask. Jordan's heart answered for her.  
  
"Uma (Yes). " she said.  
  
The smile on Legolas' face made Jordan catch her breath. It was beautiful. The Immortal felt she could look at him forever without tiring. She didn't get the chance as his mouth covered hers.  
  
Hungrily, returning kiss for kiss, Jordan surrendered to Legolas' passionate embrace. All around them, the fireflies danced, their soft lights winking in and out. Supported by his arm around her waist, Legolas' free hand left a trail of heat on her skin as he stroked her face; traveling lower, he touched the leaf at her neck and hovered over her bandage before he gently cupped her breast in his palm; his thumb brushed over her hardened nipple, sending tremors of delight thru the Immortal. With a low moan, Jordan deepened the kiss as Legolas continued his slow and deliberate exploration of her mouth and body, a never-ending kiss that reduced the Immortal to a quivering mass of desire. Wishing to be away from prying eyes as he finally claimed her for his own, Legolas swept her up in his arms and swiftly carried her to her quarters.  
  
A/N: Okay folks, there's more to come. Because I was unable to respond individually to the following readers, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank: Thea, Boredandsavage, Kaio, Dakki, and Mizuya for their reviews --- I'm glad you're still enjoying the story! And that goes for the rest of you, as well! Also, credit/kudos to: Raq & Papercrane for Beta'ing. Keep me coherent, folks!  
  
. 


	19. To Be or Not To Be

To Be or Not To Be  
  
(Author steps into the spotlight. She reaches up to the microphone; adjusting it, she taps it, wincing at the loud feedback)  
  
Testing, testing. Can you hear me . . .?  
  
(sheepish grin)  
  
Okay, folks. I'm rescinding my earlier announcement.  
  
(Holding arms up to ward off rotten tomatoes and spit balls)  
  
In order to make things easier for all of us, I WILL post chapters of "Only One" at both FF.Net and AFF.Net. I will not announce warnings @ the beginning of chapters for: Violence, Sexual Content, Adult Situations, Non-Con Sex., etc.)  
  
To my tired, confused mind, I'm thinking in case FF.Net catches on and Jordan does get booted off, you'll still be able to find her intact @ AFF.Net.  
  
My apologies for confusing the F * * * out of everyone --- if that is indeed the case. Either way, I hope to see you @ either site.  
  
A heartfelt, sincere 'Thank You' goes out to EVERY individual who has taken the time to send a review (signed/anonymous). First and only of all, I write this story strictly as an outlet for stress, and for my own entertainment/pleasure; if anyone else out there gets some enjoyment, well, I think that's great. I will respond to any/all questions individually -- provided you include a valid email address, of course.  
  
Please accept Ch. 19 as my apology and Happy Thanksgiving/Holidays to all!  
  
p.s.  
  
Yes, I have every intention of finishing this story; in the meantime, you can find everything (save this notice) posted @ AdultFanFiction.Net, under author name: "HollyHobbit", then follow the link. Hope to see you there! 


	20. Shadows and Firelight

Disclaimer: The character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon is borrowed w/o permission from Ricki/Gerald Lamb; I did ask for permission, but (s)he never got back to me; so, I'm borrowing him for a little bit. Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.

One Year of Love/Queen

Just one year of love

Is better than a lifetime alone

One sentimental moment in your arms

Is like a shooting star right through my heart

It's always a rainy day without you

I'm a prisoner of love inside you -

I'm falling apart all around you - yeah

My heart cries out to your heart

I'm lonely but you can save me

My hand reaches for to your hand

I'm cold but you light the fire in me

My lips search for your lips

I'm hungry for your touch

There's so much left unspoken

And all I can do is surrender

To the moment just surrender

And no one ever told me that love would hurt so much

Oooh yes it hurts

And pain is so close to pleasure

And all I can do is surrender to your love

Just surrender to your love

Just one year of love

Is better than a lifetime alone

One sentimental moment in your arms

Is like a shooting star right through my heart

It's always a rainy day without you

I'm a prisoner of love inside you

I'm falling apart all around you

And all I can do is surrender

Shadows and Firelight

Gregory McGulloch stepped thru the door politely held open by the young man. Nodding his thanks, he surveyed the tastefully lit interior of his unique antique shoppe. Inside, Gregory's assistant, Jacqueline was busy chatting with an older Indian couple; the trio was animatedly negotiating the price of an antique he'd recently acquired in Istanbul. Spying her employer, Jacqueline excused herself and left the pair to inspect the piece they were interested in purchasing.

"Monsieur McGulloch, Duncan MacLeod est ici (is here)." She murmured. Her employer nodded and thoughtfully pursed his lips to disguise his tiny smile.

"Où est-il? (where is he)?" he asked, spying Joe in the corner; Gregory smiled in recognition.

"Dans votre bureau (in your office)." She replied. Her eyes narrowed briefly when she noticed Joe watching them. The Watcher flashed her an unapologetic grin. Jacqueline ignored it.

"Feront-ils un achat (will they be making a purchase)?." Gregory asked, a discreet tilt of his head indicating the Indian couple.

"Naturellement ils . Bientôt ; très bientôt (of course they will. Soon; very soon.)" she replied. Gregory noticed despite her polite tone and perfunctionary smile, her eyes remained cold and distant.

"Vous êtes très déterminé ; une qualité que je respecte fortement (You're very determined; a quality I highly respect)." Gregory remarked, studying his employee.

"La détermination peut atteindre son objectif bien (determination can serve one well)." She replied cooly.

"En effet (indeed); merci, Jacqueline." Nodding once before she left, Jacqueline returned to the couple. The business transaction resumed as the beaming woman nudged her reluctant husband, who was slow to remove his checkbook from his jacket pocket. Making his way to the Watcher, Gregory held out his hand.

"Joe Dawson! Good to see you. I was beginning to wonder when you'd come." The proprietor greeted him, a wide grin on his face.

"Thanks --- right back at you. Well, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check the place out." Joe replied, making a show of looking around.

"And how are you finding things?" the older man inquired.

"Very interesting. I could spend a lot of time here. I've dabbled in antiques myself -- mainly rare books."

"I see. You're very knowledgeable in that area." It was a statement.

"I know a thing or two." The Watcher said modestly.

"Don't we all." Came the veiled reply. "What have you been doing since last we met?" Gregory asked.

"Nothing exciting. I'm tending my bar here in Paris. Stop by anytime and have a drink - on the house."

"How kind of you! I just might do that. You are with Duncan, yes? I cannot imagine him without you close by." Gregory's pleasant face had a knowing look to it. The Watcher studied his host; his gut instinct told him the older gentleman was sharper than he let on.

"Really. And why's that?" Joe asked.

"You are good. . . friends. Such are hard to come by these days." Gregory answered. The proprietor was not given a chance to speak more as Methos walked up to them. Beside him stood the young man who held the door open for him.

"Gregory, I'd like you to meet -- " Joe began.

"Adam Pierson." the older gentleman interrupted with a twinkle in his eye and a peculiarly delighted smile on his face.

"You two know each other?" the Watcher asked, surprised.

"We've . . . met before." Methos said, giving Gregory an indecipherable look.

"How've you been, old boy?" Gregory asked, his eyes crinkling with good humor.

"Good. And you?" the Oldest returned, searching the old gentleman's face.

"Busy." Gregory said.

Joe looked between the Immortal and the shoppe owner, wondering how they knew each other. Gregory turned to the Watcher.

"Joe –this is Caine Spencer, an old friend of ours." He introduced him to the tall young man standing beside the Ancient One.

_Interesting.. ._ Joe thought to himself. The men shook hands and murmured the required niceties.

"Well, I believe Duncan is cooling his heels in my office. Please, feel free to look around. If there's anything that captures your interest, I am certain Jacqueline is able to assist you." Gregory excused himself and disappeared down the hallway that led to his office, leaving the men to browse at their leisure.

"Caine Spencer. I've heard of you." Joe said, studying the young man thoughtfully..

Similar in height to Duncan and Methos, his golden head was a contrast to the dark Immortals. The Watcher glanced at Methos. The slight smile on the Ancient One's face gave him a mischievous quality that Joe had not seen in quite a while. He wondered what thoughts were brewing in the Old Man's mind.

_Interesting crowd the Highlander's mixing with._ Joe thought proudly.

And rightly so, for the Clansman had the friendship and experience of the Oldest Immortal alive at his disposal, and thru him, a connection of sorts to the second oldest Immortal, Caine Spencer. Otherwise known as the Halcyon, the Chronicles did not have his first Teacher documented. It was Methos himself who mentioned it in passing during a late night spent drinking a former student of Methos himself, and the Second Oldest Immortal was a legend in his own right. Though the secret society of Watchers followed their subjects for thousands of mortal years, there apparently was much they had yet to discover about their Immortal charges.

"Good things, I hope." Caine replied. He glanced at his Mentor briefly before meeting Joe's eyes, an easygoing smile on his youthful face.

"Depends on who you ask. Mostly good, in case you're wondering." Joe said.

Internally, the Watcher felt as excited as a child with his first toy; it was a privilege -- aside from calling the oldest Immortal and the inimitable Highlander 'friend', Joe had the honor of making the acquaintance of the second oldest Immortal alive. The knowledge, power, history and experience between the three Immortals was mind-boggling.

"Glad to hear that." Said the soft-spoken Immortal. Watcher and Immortal studied one another, sizing each other up.

"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up. Adam, I'll be in the map section." Joe said. Methos nodded; Caine watched Joe's retreating figure, not speaking until the Watcher was well out of earshot.

"You could've just told me, Caine." Methos said, exasperated.

"And miss the expression on your faces? I think not." The younger Immortal retorted

"Surprised?" Caine asked his friend.

"Yes and no; I almost didn't recognize him." Methos replied.

"Does it matter?"

"No. I suppose it doesn't. Were you able to find anything?" the Ancient asked.

"Maybe. Come look at this." With a mischievous grin, the Halcyon led the way to a glass display case; leaning on his elbows, he studied its contents. Methos followed the direction of his friend's gaze and pursed his lips to conceal his emotions.

"Will it work?" the Halcyon asked. Caine looked questioningly at his former Teacher; the grin on the Ancient One's face was so small, that his Student almost missed it – almost.

The Halcyon had a quite a time finding the extraordinarily rare coins. Caine was certain he must have checked every single antique stop in Paris before coming to Arda's Treasures. What rankled was, after a particularly long day of traipsing about the city in yet another fruitless search, his wife suggested the shoppe. The biggest surprise was that it was owned and operated by a long time acquaintance who he lost touch with. The last he knew, Gregory McCulloch was in Ireland – and that was fifteen years ago.

"Without a doubt." Methos replied; the younger Immortal did well. Extremely well.

"Why those?" the Second One asked.

"Because they don't take American Express." Methos said, smirking.

Inside the opaque globe, Jordan's image appeared; she looked exactly the same as the day she vanished. Reading her lips, the Highlander made out his name as Jordan called, waiting for him to answer. Climbing to her feet, his Student continued to call for him before she began walking. How much time passed? It was difficult for him to gauge. Duncan watched as Jordan hid behind a tree; he couldn't see what she was looking at. Jordan turned to go when her eyes widened. In fear? Surprise -- or both? Duncan couldn't tell.

"What the-- !" with a strangled cry, the Highlander winced in sympathy as a. . . thing seized her by the throat and slammed her against the tree. Duncan watched intently as Jordan fought to free herself. Her image blurred as the smoke swirled, revealing another scene.

Jordan was fighting more of the dark 'things' when Duncan saw her attackers fall. She swung around as a new figure stepped towards his student, hiding her from view. The Highlander caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair and a quiver. A peacock was pressed into the leather.

"Duncan!" Concentration broken, the Scot looked up to see Gregory directly across from him, a questioning look in his sharp eyes.

"Gregory. I- I didn't hear you." Duncan mumbled. Odd . . .the Highlander felt like he was talking in a long tunnel. His voice sounded tinny and far away to his own ears.

"That much was obvious, my boy. I called your name three times! What were you looking at?" the Highlander felt dazed as he watched his friend settle the black cloth back onto the crystal globe; its dark surface revealed nothing.

"What was I looking at? I'm not so sure myself." Duncan replied, touching a hand to his forehead. He felt lightheaded and utterly exhausted.

"You look a little green around the gills, laddie. Come. Sit down and collect yourself. Tell me how you've been." Gregory led the Immortal to a chair before his desk. Giving the Highlander a gentle push down, the old gentleman sat in his leather chair behind the desk. Studying the man before him, Gregory hid his smile.

"What has happened since last we met?" he asked, his face bland.

"So much, Gregory. I'm fine, but Jordan --you do remember her, don't you?"

"Ah yes, the lovely Nurse who was staying with you. I remember her quite well. How is she?"

"I don't know. She's missing."

"Missing you say?" The Highlander nodded.

"She disappeared shortly after your visit. It's going on three months now." The Highlander said grimly.

"Duncan . . . you must feel --- "

"Like I'm going mad. I've done nothing since but search for her. The police can't find her, there's no ransom note. She's not checked in with her job, and I don't know what else to do. I've done everything I possibly can do to find her. She hasn't contacted any friends – none of them know her whereabouts. This is totally out of character for her. She literally vanished off the face of the earth." Duncan sighed and began to pace the room like a restless tiger.

"You care a great deal for her." Gregory commented as he watched the Highlander stalk about the room.

"She's more than a friend."

"You love her." It was a statement, not a question. Duncan turned to face his host.

"Without a doubt." Duncan said. His pacing brought him to a stop before a round shield.

"She means a lot to me -- I won't rest until I find her. . . or discover what has happened to her. Whichever comes first." The Highlander vowed. Duncan sat back down in the chair; stretching his muscular legs out, he studied the tips of his hand made Italian loafers.

Much could be said about a person and their personal habits by their intimate living space. Ascending the steps and crossing the balcony, the Elf stepped into Jordan's quarters. The woman in his arms was busy kissing the strong column of the Elf's neck; her lips brushed the line of his jaw, her hands were buried in his silky hair. Scanning the room, Legolas' observant gaze took in Jordan's neatly folded clothes lying on a chair beside the table, the fire burned low in the hearth. It pleased him to see her weapons cleaned, the soiled cloths placed in a basket on the floor. Neat and ordered. Walking to the side of the bed, the Elf gently set Jordan on her feet.

_This is it . . ._ Jordan thought to herself, looking up at Legolas; her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest. The Immortal felt like she was poised on the brink of something significant.

Wanting this moment with every fiber of her being, Jordan was suddenly overcome with shyness; keeping her eyes on Legolas' boots, she trembled with a combination of dread, anticipation and desire. Suddenly, Jordan's thoughts flew back to another night, so long ago, when she offered herself to another. . . the outcome had been less than desirable. Would history repeat itself? The Immortal hesitated, holding within herself a silent debate. The longer she hesitated, the more troubled she became by indecision and self-doubt.

"Mani naa ta, Melamin (what is it, my love)?" Legolas asked, slightly perplexed; he didn't need his heightened senses to tell him the woman's ardor had cooled considerably. The desire in her eyes had vanished, to be replaced by . . . doubt?

"I. . . I don't know if I can do this." Jordan said, her voice soft.

"Cannot do what?" Legolas was certain her next words were not what he wanted to hear.

"This --!" exclaimed Jordan gesturing towards the bed. "Make love, have carnal relations, give it up, get it on, do the horizontal mambo, or whatever else you call it here." The woman replied. Though he did not understand most of her strange sayings, he deciphered enough.

"You do not wish to join with me?"

Not want to join with this splendid example of Elf kind? She would 'join' him wherever he went! Ever since she laid eyes on him, Jordan fantasized about nothing else.

I want it more than anything Jordan was about to reply. Instead, she heard herself say, "I need time."

"Time? Time for what?" Legolas asked, taken aback.

"Time to make sure you really want me for me. I mean, how do I know you're not seeing someone else on the side, or just having your fun? I need time to really think about this, 'cause I won't jump into bed and 'join' with just anybody." Jordan blurted, her words coming out in a heated rush. Jordan spoke so quickly she wasn't sure if the Elf understood her.

She wanted the Elf more than she could adequately express, for the powerful attraction had grown to such proportions, that the mere thought of the Elf brought a flush of warmth and a rush of color to her cheeks. At night, her vivid imagination obligingly conjured many racy images and thoughts of the Elf that left her trembling in her bed with unrequited desire. Even more than that, Jordan did not want to experience the humiliation of rejection, though the considerable bulge in the Elf's leggings was a fair indication that rejection was not immediately forthcoming – at least on the Elf's part.

Although it pained the Immortal to admit her insecurities, Jordan didn't want to swallow the bitter pill of disappointment -- again. There is no place in Rivendell she could go that Legolas wouldn't be able to find her, should she need to lick her emotional wounds.

The Immortal withdrew into herself as she stepped away from him. She wrapped her shift closer around her, gripped by her doubts, torn by conflicting thoughts. Jordan was prepared for his anger. She couldn't blame him – not that she'd deliberately set out to tease or mislead him. Flirting was enjoyable – more so when she had no intention whatsoever of following through. However, things were different with Legolas, for Jordan was often rendered speechless in his presence, or babbled about nothing.

Jordan had been told all her life that she was pretty – even described as beautiful by some, but in Rivendell, where Elven beauty eclipsed all else, the Immortal couldn't help but wonder why. Why her? Flattered by the golden Elf's attention, Jordan didn't mind the drugging kisses and fever-inducing touches. Who wouldn't – especially when the Elf was Legolas? Now things were different. Jordan wasn't sure how long she would remain in Middle Earth, and the Immortal knew she was in very real danger of losing to heart (if she hadn't already) to the Elf she fantasized about. Would he do as her mother and all the matrons of her youth warned of, that once a man got what he wanted, the woman was discarded or merely regarded as a pleasure toy? The demon on her shoulder whispered relentlessly into her ear.

_Legolas isn't a Man . . .why can't you have some 'fun'? No one will know. Your parents are long dead. There is no one to hold you to the old fashioned standards you were raised to hold in high regard . . . an eternity to take lovers. . . who better to start with than the fabled creature before you? Not everyone can claim to have bedded an Elf, and a Prince at that. . . !_

Jordan was confused; her head spun with all the possible scenarios that ended with a bruised, or worse, broken heart. Hers. Legolas was speechless. Although her verbiage was completely unfamiliar, he understood its meaning. Was the woman blind? Could she not see the effect she had on him? Jordan haunted his dreams -- filled his thoughts in ways that no other maiden had, or, he suspected, would ever do. By the Valar – this woman could be most frustrating!

Wallowing in her doubts and self-pity, Jordan started when she felt Legolas' warm, strong fingers close around her wrist. Pulling her close, he held the compact beauty against him, grasping her chin firmly between his fingers until she reluctantly looked up at him.

"Jordan, Jordan -- Elf kind are not fickle with their affections, Melamin." He said.

_I must court the lady's favor. . ._ he reminded himself. The Elf who never missed a shot wondered how to go about courting. He had not courted in Ages. Damn it all to Mordor and back – why couldn't it be simple?

No matter; he would wait for her. The rock-hard consequence of their love play was almost unbearable. Legolas' desire flamed like wildfire; although he would allow her time to decide, the Wood Elf fervently hoped she would not require much. The Elf wanted more. Far more. Tasting the sweetness of her kisses, feeling her body beneath his hands and her enthusiastic response – only to be turned back now, would be most . . . disappointing. It took all his self-control to pull back.

Despite his soothing words, the Mirkwood Princecould see the shadows of doubt in her green eyes. Eyes he longed to see his reflection in – _what would it take to make it so?_ Legolas knew the only way to dispel the shadows from her eyes and mind would be to show her in no uncertain terms that his words and feelings were true.

"I see you before me, and none other, Jordan Waters." He murmured before he kissed her roughly.

"You alone are the cause of this." Legolas placed her hand over his swollen elfhood, as he moved his hips suggestively against her hand. Jordan blushed and instinctively tried to pull her hand back. The Wood Elf wouldn't allow it; instead, he held her hand firmly in place, exerting pressure on her wrist until her fingers were forced to open to cup his sex.

"Do you trust me, Melamin?" he asked again.

Jordan opened her mouth to answer, only to close it quickly. The Elf stifled a flash of disappointment and a surge of anger as he released her hand. Surely they couldn't have reached this level of . . . understanding without some measure of trust and feeling between them. Apparently he was mistaken about that as well.

"How much time will you need?" Legolas asked, fighting to keep his tone of voice even. What he needed was to kill a legion of Uruks to alleviate his frustration – frustration with the woman and the situation they were presently in.

How much time will I need? Jordan mused, studying her toes. She remained silent so long, the Elf was convinced she was not going to answer; he sighed inwardly.

"Come to me when you are ready." Legolas said brusquely as he turned to go.

Clarity. Something within Jordan shifted. The Immortal was tired – tired of the 'what if' game. Tired of guarding her heart, tired of expecting to be hurt, of seeing others find happiness and fulfillment, while she looked the other way, pretending all was well. If mortals with their limited time on earth possessed the courage to love and love again in the wake of devastating heartache and heartbreak, could she do any less? The Immortal considered her options.

_Don't let him go . . ._ Jordan looked up.

_Live the dream . . ._ her heart whispered. But it was too late; the Elf was already at the steps.

"Legolas. . ." it was hardly more than a whisper, but he heard her.

The Elf paused. Turning back towards the Immortal, Legolas waited to see what she would do. His blue eyes studied her face, trying to decipher her thoughts, for he could plainly see her indecision. Before she lost her nerve, Jordan went to him. She looked up at the Elf and gave him a shy, tentative smile, trying not to flush beneath his steady, piercing gaze. Reaching for his hand, Jordan slowly curled her fingers around his and quietly led him back inside.

A/N:Happy Thanksgiving!


	21. Thru A Glass Darkly

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
Ain't Nobody/Chaka Khan  
  
Captured effortlessly  
That's the way it was  
Happened so naturally  
I did not know it was love  
The next thing I felt was  
You holding me close  
What was I gonna do?  
I let myself go  
  
And now we're flyin' through the stars  
I hope this night will last forever  
  
I've been waitin' for you  
It's been so long  
I knew just what I would do  
When I heard your song  
Filled my heart with your bliss  
Gave me freedom  
You knew I could not resist  
I needed someone  
  
And now we're flyin' through the stars  
I hope this night will last forever  
Oh oh oh oh  
  
Ain't nobody  
Loves me better  
Makes me happy  
Makes me feel this way  
Ain't nobody  
Loves me better than you  
  
I wait for nighttime to come  
And bring you to me  
Can't believe I'm the one  
I was so lonely  
I feel like no one could feel  
I must be dreamin'  
I want this dream to be real  
I need this feelin'  
  
I make my wish upon a star  
And hope this night will last forever  
  
And first you put your arms around me  
Then you put your charms around me  
I can't resist this sweet surrender  
Oh my nights are warm and tender  
We stare into each other's eyes  
And what we see is no surprise  
Got a feeling most would treasure  
And a love so deep we cannot measure  
  
Thru a Glass Darkly  
  
Settling himself comfortably in the leather chair, Gregory folded his hands atop his polished desk and looked at the man seated across from him. Amusement danced within his eyes as he beheld the determined set of his guest's chiseled jaw. It disappeared when Duncan looked up at his host and gave him a wry smile. When Gregory reached up to scratch the side of his nose, the Highlander noticed the band on his host's ring finger, for the stone winked at him from its gold setting.  
  
"Nice ring." Duncan commented, wanting to change the subject. He did not wish to burden Gregory with his concerns.  
  
"Yes, isn't it?" Gregory gazed fondly at the ring on his finger, a wistful smile on his face. The red gem glowed as if lit from within. "It was given to me by a dear friend; why, every time I look at it, it eases my heart - gives me strength."  
  
"I could use some of that right about now." Duncan muttered under his breath.  
  
"Pardon?" Gregory asked, peering at the Clansman.  
  
"I was thinking I could use some strength myself right about now. So, how's business?" asked the Highlander.  
  
"Strength you have in great store, Duncan. You need not be told that." Gregory said, giving the Highlander a meaningful look. Duncan didn't know how to reply. What could the older man mean by that cryptic remark? He wasn't allowed to dwell on the question, for his host spoke again.  
  
"To answer your initial question, business has been quite good. Speaking of which, at this moment, I believe your friends are browsing around my shoppe."  
  
"They're probably also wondering where I am." said Duncan, rising to his feet. Gregory stood as well, and came around from behind his desk to walk the Highlander out. Reaching the door, Duncan hesitated.  
  
"Gregory - I didn't mean to poke around, but I did." He confessed.  
  
"I see. and did you find anything worth your effort?" Gregory inquired. The Highlander couldn't tell if he was angry or amused.  
  
"That . . . globe in there. . ."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What is it?" Duncan asked  
  
"My crystal ball, Duncan." Gregory said with a smile. The Highlander nodded uncertainly. His host was certainly in a strange mood.  
  
"Right." The Clansman replied, humoring him. A knock on the door drew their attention. After a second, Methos poked his head in.  
  
"Is this a private meeting?"  
  
"Not anymore." Duncan muttered under his breath. He smiled when Methos shot him a look.  
  
"Come in, come in" Gregory invited, waving the Immortal inside. Methos entered, followed closely by Joe.  
  
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, MacLeod." The Ancient one said pleasantly as he passed by.  
  
"Nice digs, Gregory." Joe commented as he walked in; immediately, his gaze was drawn to the partition, for its vibrant hues were the only splash of color in the otherwise austere room. The rich and variegated embroidery was unlike anything he'd ever seen; it also looked very expensive. He did a double take.  
  
"Hey, is that really -- "  
  
"Gold thread? Yes. Nice, isn't it? I can see you're a very observant man of discriminating taste." Gregory replied with a smile.  
  
"It's part of my job." The Watcher said with a shrug of his shoulders.  
  
Joe glanced around the large room. Scattered everywhere were weapons of war. The ancient armor alone was enough to make anyone believe one stood in a medieval armory, rather than an antique dealer's private office. Prominently displayed were several shields mounted on the wall. Two were round; of the two, one was simple, dark and foreboding; its weathered surface was blackened as though it had been scorched by a terrible fire or smelted by some diabolical force. The deep scars only served to enhance its savage and menacing quality. It sported no decorative embellishments or any other aesthetically pleasing design. If the shield alone was enough to cause one to shudder with dread, Joe was in no hurry to see who it wielded it.  
  
The other shield, in comparison, was its exact opposite. Opposite sides of a coin. Though round in shape that was where the resemblance ended, for it's surface was reinforced with decorative plates of metal overlaying the rich, mahogany hued wood. It was battered and weathered as well. Though extraordinarily well preserved, and restored to near-mint condition, the Watcher surmised it was but a shadow of its former glory.  
  
Joe could tell it was not a reproduction, for the nicks and dents marring its surface proved its quality. With such battle scars, it had undoubtedly protected its bearer, and seen him thru many conflicts. Upon closer inspection, around the boss of the noble shield, the Watcher could discern seven embossed stars. Both circular shields were noteworthy and deserved a moment of pause, however, the shield that caught the Watcher's attention was of such extraordinary craftsmanship and design, that Joe seriously doubted it had ever seen war. He studied the beautiful details, wondering if it's unusual design was functional as well as ornamental. Surely something of such elegance and refined beauty couldn't be anything but a showpiece -- something to discuss and admire over after dinner drinks.  
  
Where the first two shields were round, and meant to be worn on the forearm, providing coverage for the upper body, the third was full - a body shield - and vastly different. Its regal shape was kite-like, vaguely resembling a diamond with notched sides. Its upper half had a pointed tip and sides that gently flared out, then rounded back in. The graceful edgings were likened to that of a dove spreading its wings in flight. Its lower half was an elongated, inverted triangle that tapered to a sharp end, much like an arrowhead.  
  
With that lethal end, Joe could very well imagine it being used in an attack as well as a defense, for the shield could spear a foe, or be driven into the ground to act as a buffer against arrows and spears. To look upon it, one would say it was fashioned from gold; however, the Watcher knew that the precious metal was soft and could not withstand the stress of battle, nor could it shelter its bearer from a viciously delivered blow. It was beautifully crafted and cunningly fashioned, wrought with organic swirls and vinery. Deadly yet beautiful, it was a fully functional work of art.  
  
Joe was thankful he had not been born in the age of chivalry, for the 20th Century and all its modern conveniences suited him just fine. He explored the rest of the room, occasionally stopping at a display case here or by a stand there to study the contents. One display in particular caught his eye, its fascinating items left him wondering about the history behind the pieces: a rust encrusted lump likened to that of a.spent bullet? Odd. A horn of some sort cloven into two distinctive pieces. What was its purpose? Powder? No, it couldn't have been, for guns were not available in that era/age/timeframe. Water maybe? On closer inspection, he decided not, for both ends were open. One end would have to be sealed in order for it to even hold a sip of water. A hunting or battle horn? Perhaps.  
  
Along with the shattered horn was a coil of delicate, slender rope, and a beautifully cut crystal phial; the Watcher guessed at one point in time the phial may have contained a precious oil or perfume. Joe wondered why such ordinary items would be placed under protective glass and hidden away. What meaning did they hold for the Proprietor? The Watcher asked himself. Perhaps it was just something he collected, the way others collect shot glasses or stamps. A person was entitled to their eccentricities.  
  
"Is there a secret passage behind that curtain as well, Gregory?" Joe asked with a chuckle.  
  
"Ask but the proper question, Mr. Dawson." The Proprietor said as he paused for effect.  
  
"Is it the Lady or the dragon behind the curtain?" Gregory said, smiling at the Watcher's bemused expression.  
  
"Actually, it's a crystal ball. Would you like to see?" he continued. Joe glanced at Methos; the Old Man smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Why not?" The Watcher asked. He was game.  
  
First Hugh Fitzcairn, now Gregory; leave it to the Highlander to encounter and associate with quirky characters in his long life's path. Beckoning the others to follow, Gregory made his way to the partition and drew it aside.  
  
Eager to take another look at the dark crystal ball, Duncan followed close on the Watcher's heels. Methos hung back, lingering in the entryway. The Ancient One touched the glittering embroidery on the partition; his fingers absently traced the gold threads as he observed the Highlander and his Watcher thru hooded lids.  
  
Joe glanced around the room. From what he could see, the single shaft of light emanating from the ceiling was the sole source of illumination. It highlighted the pillar dominating the center of the room. Though the room was small, the light did not reach the corners, which were hidden in shadow. How odd. Joe's attention shifted back to his companions, wishing he hadn't been the first to enter. There was precious little room left to stand comfortably.  
  
Behind the Watcher, Duncan's pulse quickened, for now that the Immortal Sorcerer's knowledge had been harnessed, the Highlander could sense an aura radiating from the globe, a pulsating beat that reached out and ensnared, wrapping invisible tentacles of power around the Highlander.  
  
"Mac." Joe said under his breath.  
  
Instead of having the desired effect, Duncan leaned forward, looking over the Watcher's shoulder. Feeling claustrophobic in the dim, windowless room, Joe stepped forward. So did the Highlander. Leaning on his cane, the Watcher gave the Immortal a not so discrete nudge with his elbow, hoping Duncan would get the hint.  
  
"Mac!" Joe whispered hoarsely.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're crowding me, damn it! Move back, would ya?"  
  
"Sorry, Joe. I wanted to get a closer look." Duncan said. The Watcher grumbled, then moved so the Highlander had a better view.  
  
Gregory cleared his throat to disguise his amusement. Glancing at Methos, Gregory saw the Immortal's face gave nothing away, his dark eyes inscrutable as he slouched against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Watching the Eldest's eyes, he slowly lifted the black cloth.  
  
#  
  
Leaving the balcony doors open, Jordan hesitantly led Legolas into the room. For a moment, she almost lost her resolve, but she brushed aside her fears and turned to face the Elf. Elf and Immortal stood before one other, their gazes intent, the silence between them broken occasionally by the pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth. Jordan stared up at the Elf, not knowing what to say, not wanting to ruin the moment. His eyes held her spellbound, mesmerizing her, pinning her where she stood.  
  
* * Now I know what they mean by 'like a deer caught in the headlights' * * she thought to herself.  
  
Jordan was caught between her conflicting emotions. Now that she had Legolas where she wanted him, the Immortal was undecided, afraid to say or do anything, for fear that the spell would be broken. All that she knew was that she wanted him. Needed him. No more words, she decided. Tonight would be the night. Yet her fear of rejection, humiliation.  
  
* * What was I thinking?!" * * Jordan asked herself.  
  
She'd never seduced anyone before - at least successfully, she amended. Jordan stifled the memory that threatened to undermine her courage. A thousand thoughts raced thru her mind but one loomed above all others. She wanted Legolas. Of that she was certain. Legolas stood before her, patiently waiting and just a touch wary. The woman before him had changed her mind once too many for him tonight, thoroughly confusing and frustrating him, straining the superlative control Legolas - and Elfkind for that matter - possessed.  
  
Elves, unlike Men, do not lose control of their emotions or actions. However, the fair Elf knew, this woman could very well make him come close to it; she drove him to distraction. One moment, Jordan seemed to mirror his feelings and desires, her eyes reflecting what he wanted to see in them, then in the next heartbeat, they would cloud over, closing her thoughts and heart to him. It would be simpler, if not saner for Legolas to allow Jordan to make the first move -- rather than risk misinterpreting matters . . . again. Studying her face, he watched the indecision, confusion, doubt and hope flit across her face before she finally reached a decision. A ghost of a smile touched his lips when he once again saw the desire he felt reflected in her eyes. Determined not to do or say anything that would make her shy away, Legolas kept his hands to his sides, forcing her to take the initiative.  
  
The Immortal licked her lips nervously, undecided how to interpret the fact that Legolas kept his hands at his sides. Timidly, the Immortal reached up with both hands and lightly rested them on the Elf's broad shoulders. He felt so solid . . . so real. And he remained so still. Standing on her tiptoes, Jordan couldn't quite reach him, for he kept his golden head front and center. It appeared he wasn't going to help, either.  
  
* * Hmmm. If that was the way he wanted it . . .* * Jordan thought to herself.  
  
Jordan wished she had kept her copy of the Kama Sutra; the Immortal had heard about the notorious love manual, yet never bothered to see for herself what the fuss what about; instead, she asked Collette if she had, which was a mistake (or was it?) -- for a week later, the Immortal received the book as a gag gift from her blonde friend. That in itself wouldn't have been so bad, had it not been hand delivered by the blind date that showed up on her doorstep. To make matters worse, he claimed Collette suggested he wear nothing but a red tie and a smile. Sometimes her friend was lacking in subtlety.  
  
In the privacy of her bedroom, the Immortal debated with herself before finally deciding to take a peek. One look at the colorful, glossy pages graphically depicting the various positions possible during sexual intercourse had Jordan blushing straight to her toes. After all, her mother and the matrons of her youth insisted that 'nice girls' learned all they needed to know in the marriage bed. And not until then; yet curiosity had Jordan leafing thru the pages. It laid buried in her sock drawer for months until the Immortal gave it away as a bridal shower gift for a co- worker's daughter. Perhaps she'd acted a bit too hasty.  
  
Tilting her head back to look at him, the Elf's face was expressionless, but Jordan saw the unmistakable interest and amusement in his eyes, as well as the unspoken challenge.  
  
* * Fine. * * she thought.  
  
Undeterred, the Immortal reached up and framed his face with her hands, angling Legolas' head down so he would look at her. He didn't resist. Taking that as a good sign, Jordan took his hand and rubbed her cheek against his palm, savoring the warmth against her face. She glanced up at him; except for his blue eyes following her every move, the Elf could've been a statue. Maintaining eye contact, Jordan touched her lips to his wrist; she flicked it lightly with the tip of her tongue, and slowly drew it across Legolas' wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse, noting the subtle flaring of his nostrils. She was getting somewhere.  
  
Taking his hands in hers, Jordan placed her fingers over his, and brought them up to cup her face; for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, feeling slightly foolish. This was harder than she imagined; the Immortal thought about the romance novels she and Collette would giggle over during a quick break in a bookstore as they mall trolled.  
  
Breasts. Aren't males always fixated on breasts? Jordan kept her eyes on Legolas' as she moved his hands slowly down her neck. . . to her shoulders . . . to her chest. Placing his hands on her breasts, Jordan felt a twinge of relief as his fingers - ever so lightly -- attempted to cup them. He was breathing just a little faster. Encouraged, the Immortal allowed his thumbs to brush over her nipples. Once . . . twice, before she grasped his wrists and moved his hands to her rib cage and down, following the curve of her waist.  
  
The Elf didn't release his hold. Gently but firmly, Jordan returned the Elf's hands to his side. Legolas wasn't the only one affected, for the Immortal's breathing was starting to quicken as well. Releasing his wrists, Jordan twined a hand in his pale hair and gently pulled his head down. Framing his face with her other hand, Jordan whispered a kiss across his jaw, so light and fleeting that the Elf was uncertain if he had imagined it. With her fingers, Jordan touched his ear, lightly tracing its contours.  
  
Legolas closed his eyes and swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain still and not tremble beneath her touch. Jordan saw that the Elf's eyes were closed; the muscles in his jaw clenched. A slow grin spread across her face. She was starting to enjoy this. Slanting her head up, Jordan softly traced his lips with the tip of her tongue; the Immortal was rewarded when the Elf's lips parted. Carefully, slowly, Jordan touched her lips to his. His response was immediate.  
  
* * Hallelujah! * * she thought.  
  
Crushing her to him, Legolas lips covered hers; his tongue stroked her lips before pushing past. Jordan willingly parted her lips, welcoming his relentless plundering of her mouth. The kiss continued -- long and drugging until the Immortal didn't know which way was up or down; his mouth stripping away every defense Jordan possessed. With each velvety stroke of his tongue, one by one, he eliminated all her doubts. She tasted the hunger on his lips, yet he continued to hold back. What would it take for the Elf to lose control? Jordan wondered. She didn't dwell on the thought long, instead preferring to lose herself in his kiss.  
  
When Legolas did finally release her, they were both breathing hard, and Jordan felt unsteady on her feet. Just a little. Yet the Elf still kept his hands at his side, still in control. Legolas watched Jordan with an intensity so fierce, it would've terrified her, had her own need not made her oblivious to everything save this moment. Dazed, the Immortal touched her fingers to her swollen lips; she looked up at the Elf, wide eyed. She wanted more. Unable to look away from him, the Immortal's hands went to her robe; she started to open it when Legolas' hands covered hers, stilling them.  
  
Rooted in place by his blue eyes, the Elf slowly eased Jordan's robe away from her shoulders until it fell to the ground in a silken whisper. Her shift followed soon after, leaving her bare and vulnerable to his mouth and hands; Legolas took her hand and drew her forward. Stepping out of her nightgown, Jordan blushed from head to toe, resisting the urge to cover herself with her hands. It was a night of many firsts for the Immortal. Head held high, she stood completely nude before the Elf, wondering what he thought.  
  
Legolas slowly walked around her, admiring her body, which was similar yet so unlike that of the Elven lovers he had known. Where his lovers were tall, Jordan was petite; without her heeled boots, Jordan's head barely reached his chin. The Elf's taste in maidens usually ran towards those fair or fiery of hair, yet there was something alluring about this dark Daughter of Man, whose black hair shone in the firelight, contrasting with her pearly skin, so unlike the flawless porcelain of the Elves. Rosy brown buds tipped her high, full breasts, her nipples proudly erect, beckoning him to explore their delights; Jordan's limbs were perfectly formed and shaped, her flesh toned but not muscled, attesting to her physical lifestyle; this maiden definitely did not spend her days employed in needlework, nor was she a Lady of idle leisure. Legolas' hands reached out to trace the slender dip of her waist, stroking the soft skin . . . following its curves down to her hips.  
  
Jordan closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of his lips as he placed soft kisses along her neck, alternately sucking and nipping her sensitized flesh. Bending his golden head, the Elf ran his hands lightly over her shoulders, down her arms, carefully avoiding her bandages . . . he encircled her wrists, felt her racing pulse point. Lacing his fingers with hers, Legolas studied them. Small hands that was equally capable of wielding a sword. And killing. Stepping back, he studied the exotic beauty of the woman before him, pleased with what he saw . . . what would soon be his.  
  
The Immortal couldn't help the fluttering of a thousand caged butterflies in her stomach when Legolas' elegant fingers lightly brushed over the dark curls at the juncture of Jordan's thighs. Grasping her hips, Legolas pulled her closer to him; the coolness of the night and the texture of his tunic against her bare skin was arousing in its own way, even as the Elf's erection pressed eagerly against her. Legolas tilted Jordan's chin up before his lips claimed hers in a teasing kiss that hinted at the promise of the pleasure yet to come. The Immortal was on the verge of sensory overload. If their love play ended at that moment, Jordan wouldn't mind. . . until she recovered and wanted more, that is. Pulling away from her, Legolas gave a soft chuckle when she made a small noise of protest.  
  
"Patience, Melamin." He murmured.  
  
Taking her hands in his, Legolas raised them and slowly kissed one fingertip at a time, gently suckling the sensitive pads. Jordan caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her excitement mounting. Was it her imagination, or did his blue eyes shine brighter? Legolas placed her hands on the front of his tunic; the Immortal needed no further encouragement. In her eagerness, Jordan's trembling fingers fumbled with the clasps of his tunic. She forced herself to slow down and not rip his tunic open. Legolas smiled and reached up to help her.  
  
Gently swatting his hands away, Jordan finally succeeded in unlatching  
the clasps, and was rewarded with his skin beneath her fingertips. Not a strand of hair was on his chest. She liked that his body was clean and smooth, hard and soft; the perfect blending of opposites. Yin and yang. The Immortal was hardly able to believe she was touching him openly - and freely. Legolas' velvety skin quivered beneath her fingertips. Shrugging out of his clothes, Jordan's arms went around Legolas' neck as he captured her mouth once more and gave her another mind numbing kiss. Trailing his fingers down her back, the Elf cupped her buttocks and lifted her; Jordan locked her legs around Legolas' waist as they continued to kiss. The Immortal gave a small gasp of surprise when she felt the cool texture of the wall against her back. Gently sucking his bottom lip, she raised her head and gave him a sultry smile.  
  
"Naughty Elf." She whispered seductively into his ear before licking the pointed tip.  
  
In response, the Elf pinned her with another searing kiss, his body moving against hers in an erotic rhythm that sent a rush of heat to her core. Jordan's head fell back against the wall, offering her neck to the Elf's questing lips. Her hips moved against his, answering his body's call, feeling the large, hard bulge of his elfhood thru his leggings.  
  
"Legolas. . ." Jordan breathed. The Immortal felt the wall fall away as he turned toward the bed.  
  
"Melamin, I have plans for you." Legolas whispered in her ear. She couldn't wait.  
  
Sitting on the bed with Jordan in his lap, Legolas kicked off his boots before standing effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Jordan ran her hands over his chest, back and arms, hungrily kissing whatever skin she could reach; gently unlocking her legs, Legolas slid her slowly down his front into a standing position - making sure she felt his arousal all the while. His breath caught in his chest as he gazed at her; Jordan's eyes were dilated, the dark pupils almost eclipsing the green of her eyes, her lips swollen and reddened from his kisses.  
  
This woman was the cause of many a restless night, the subject of erotic thoughts -- and blessed Valar, had him feeling as eager as if it were his first coupling, for in a sense it was - with a mortal. With over two millenia's worth of experience to draw upon, the Elf fully intended to show Jordan what it was like to be loved by him.  
  
The Elf's hands roamed over Jordan's body, his hot mouth leisurely explored hers, probing, tasting. . . Legolas' caresses were sending her into a fevered frenzy. Every nerve ending in Jordan's body felt alive, charged with electricity. Legolas allowed Jordan's hands to roam freely over his chest and torso, letting her set the pace,  
  
Legolas was beyond model perfect. Jordan ran her hands over his body, enjoying the feel of his soft skin, watching in fascination as his muscles glided beneath her hands; his smooth chest and wide shoulders were perfectly sculpted, tapering to a narrow waist and hips. Jordan raked her nails lightly over Legolas' defined abdominal muscles. Resting her hands on the Elf's hips, Jordan pressed a kiss to his chest. Looking up at the Elf, the Immortal flicked one nipple with her tongue, then the other, smiling when it stood at attention. Legolas' head was tilted slightly back; eyes closed, his jaw clenched as he held himself still, trembling ever so slightly. With a wicked grin, Jordan stood on tiptoe and explored the strong column of the Elf's neck, alternately biting and suckling the sensitive skin with moist, nibbling kisses before the Immortal moved across his chest.  
  
The Elf fought back the urge to take Jordan then and there, restraining himself with much difficulty when her hand tentatively brushed over his swollen elfhood, his erection straining against its confines. Sensing she was ready to go further, Legolas lifted Jordan and placed her on the center of the bed, leaving a trail of fiery kisses before he stood. Looking down at the woman before him, Legolas loosed the ties of his breeches, smiling when she kept her eyes averted, not meeting his eyes, studiously avoiding looking at his groin, her cheeks flushed. It amused him. One minute she was boldly exploring his body, the next she was a shy maiden. Which was the real Jordan? The Elf wondered. It would be his pleasure to find out. Walking to the table, he draped his leggings over a chair, and then banked the fire - for it was not needed. He would keep her warm.  
  
As he turned away, Jordan took the opportunity to scramble under the covers; her heart beating a wild staccato in her chest. She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts; perhaps it was a trick of the light, or her imagination, but the Elf really seemed to glow, illuminated somehow from within. Magic, she thought, watching wordlessly as he placed his clothes and her shift over the chair, then banked the fire. Her eyes fastened hungrily on the Elf. Looking at him naked would have satisfied her . . . for a while; not an ounce of fat was on his lithe body, his buttocks tight and round, his thighs long and muscular. But it was glaringly obvious that sightseeing was not all that would happen tonight. Jordan shivered in anticipation.  
  
Legolas. Perfection personified-from the braids at his temples, to the shape of his feet, he was poetry in motion. Michelangelo's David was a gross caricature in comparison to this magnificent Elven Adonis before her. In her line of work, the Immortal had seen all body types: young, old, fit, flabby and everything in between. This Elf, however, is the avatar, the incarnation of strength, youth and beauty. Tonight he was hers, her angel of the night. Not knowing what she'd done to deserve a moment of his time, she thanked the powers that be.  
  
Legolas silently made his way back to the bed. He waited, his blue eyes intense; the ample length of his elfhood stood tall, hard and proud. Wordlessly, Jordan reached for him, the bed sheet falling away from her breasts. Wanting to see all of her, he drew the sheets away, uncovering the Immortal. Stretching out beside the woman, the Elf nuzzled her neck, making her giggle breathlessly as he discovered she was slightly ticklish there; the leaf of Lórien lay in the hollow of her throat. Legolas paused, touching it gently with his fingers before he continued to kiss his way down her body, caressing . . . nibbling, carefully avoiding her injuries.  
  
The consummate lover, Legolas used Jordan's gasps and moans as his guide, nuzzling the valley between her breasts; his hands skillfully massaged the fleshy orbs as his tongue teased the sensitive tips, feeling like rough velvet on her breasts as he suckled and laved her nipples. And his hands . . . oh, his hands! Jordan buried her own hands in the pale, silken fall of his hair as he continued to make love to only her breasts. She couldn't begin to imagine the feelings he'd ignite if the Elf applied his searing skills to the rest of her body. Jordan was aware of nothing save those magic hands, roaming freely along her body, his tongue and lips mercilessly exploring every inch of her flesh, his warm breath causing goose bumps to rise. As he went lower, Legolas felt her tense, her thighs held tightly together. Rising upon his elbow, Legolas kissed Jordan's lips gently as he whispered against her mouth, "Trust me, Melamin."  
  
With his mouth he worshipped her face; his hand cupped and kneaded her breasts, trailing down to her side with just the right amount of pressure, slowly cajoling her body into relaxing under his touch. The Elf's hands lovingly caressed her hips, acquainting himself with every contour, every curve, before hovering over her dark curls. Jordan bit her lip then gasped when she felt his fingers delve into her, parting her secret folds. Finding the sensitive spot, Jordan whimpered softly as Legolas slowly rubbed and pressed, rocking his fingers oh so slowly, smiling as the Immortal's back arched in response. The Elf's mouth left her face to explore her body, staking his claim on every inch of her flesh as his fingers gently massaged her core. Legolas inserted a finger, then another, skillfully moving them in a torturously slow rhythm, increasing the pressure as Jordan moaned, her hands knotting in the sheets as her body was engulfed in pleasure.  
  
* Ohhh. My--! * Jordan's mind couldn't string an intelligent thought together.  
  
"Legolas." she panted breathlessly. The Elf's tongue dipped into her mouth once again, demanding . . . exploring . . . claiming.  
  
"Melamin?" Jordan's nails were digging into the Elf's back; instead of discomfort, it only aroused him more.  
  
"Please." Jordan couldn't take much more of this sweet torture.  
  
"Please what?" He teased her mercilessly, continuing his attentive ministrations.  
  
Words escaped her. Jordan gave up trying to speak; instead she rode wave after wave of sensation, going higher and higher, towards what she didn't know, her body writhing beneath his masterful fingers. She was aware of nothing, save his hands and mouth-tasting. . . touching. . . . teasing . . . squeezing.  
  
"You will call out for me again 'ere this night is over" he promised her.  
  
** . . . yes, oh yes. . .** was all Jordan could think.  
  
Kissing his way back up to her lips, Legolas knelt between her legs and ran his hands along her inner thighs, placing one leg then the other around his waist; his engorged member eagerly strained towards her. Jordan's eyes were closed, reveling in the strength of him, as she gave herself over to the sensations he evoked from her. Long fingers that unerringly aimed a bow expertly found and caressed her sensitive spot, eliciting more throaty moans of pleasure from the Immortal. Growing bolder, Jordan reached for him; he was so hard . . soft . . . hot . . . swollen . . . hers. Running her hands lightly over his length, Jordan gently squeezed him and smiled when the Elf groaned and buried his face against her neck. Leaning forward, Legolas gradually shifted his weight onto her, allowing her to adjust to the feel and weight of his body. Kissing her eyelids, then her nose, he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss, leaving her breathless.  
  
"Open your eyes, Melamin." he whispered; her eyes fluttered open. Panting, Jordan's heart was racing.  
  
"Do you trust me?" He asked, tenderly kissing her mouth.  
  
His fingertips smoothed back the hair at her temples; his eyes, oh those blue, blue eyes . . . Jordan smiled up at him, her hands lightly touching his perfect features before gently tracing the sensitive tips of his ears, feeling him tremble in response. The Immortal considered his question. Did she trust Legolas -yes, she trusted him with her life, but could she trust the Elf with her heart?  
  
Looking into her eyes, Legolas could have burst into song when he saw the answer in the green depths. Jordan kissed him her legs pulling him closer to her in silent answer.  
  
"You wouldn't be here if I didn't." She replied softly, a teasing smile on her lips.  
  
Running his hands down her arms, Legolas lingered over the bandage on her upper arm, kissing it before her took her hands in his. Raising them above her head, he held them in place with one hand, his other hand continued to massage her swollen nub, her body arching beneath him. Jordan's eyes fluttered closed and she bit her lower lip as another spasm of pleasure rendered her speechless. Legolas' elfhood was poised at the entrance of her folds; knowing his size would cause her pain, he slowly pushed the tip of his elfhood in; as he entered, her tight walls enveloped his member in its hot, velvety warmth.  
  
Legolas' breath left his lungs with a hiss; the Elf closed his eyes, wanting to sink into her warm vise, but was determined to prolong the experience. He slowly withdrew, and then slowly pushed just the tip of his member in, smiling as Jordan arched her hips in an attempt to envelope more of him. slowly, oh so slowly he inched in and out, sinking into her just a little more at a time before he withdrew, continuing the delicious torment, alternately teasing and pleasing the both of them. Jordan's moans inflamed the Elf, and Legolas felt his control start to slowly slip away. Gritting his teeth, the cords of the Elf's neck were visible as he resisted the overwhelming need to complete this act of love, determined to please her.  
  
"Legolas..!" Jordan panted.  
  
"Yes, Melamin?"  
  
"I .need. you.." she whimpered, needing to have him - all of him within her; Jordan felt she would soon go mad, the pleasure was so extreme, it bordered on pain.  
  
"You need me to what?" he whispered thickly before claiming her mouth in a kiss.  
  
Wanting all of him, Jordan struggled half heartedly to free her hands from his grip, drawing a low chuckle from him. Legolas placed his free hand at the small of her back, lifting her hips.  
  
"Legolas--!" Looking at the woman beneath him, the naked desire on her face spurred him on.  
  
Delving deeper, he felt the tiny barrier that prevented him from fully sinking into her sweet warmth. His blue eyes burned brighter as he looked down at her. There was no turning back now. With a groan, Legolas pulled back then thrust fully into her, breaking thru the thin membrane; the sudden, sharp, intense pain stole Jordan's breath away. He was so big, so thick. The Immortal felt she was being split in two, her body arched as she tried to get away from the Elf, certain she could not take all of him, but Legolas held her in place, pressing her deeper into the feather mattress, impaling her as his strokes became longer and harder.  
  
"Lle phu amin (you are mine), Jordan!" He ground out between thrusts.  
  
The pain receded, only to be replaced with intensifying pleasure as his hands and body guided Jordan in the rhythm as old as time itself. Releasing her hands, he grasped her body, angling her just so, as she instinctively responded to the exquisite friction of his turgid member against her sensitive core. Intimate muscled squeezed and released his elfhood, causing him to groan against her as he angled her lower body again to increase her pleasure. Jordan breathlessly whispered encouragement in his ear, exciting the Elf to no end. Breaking free from his grip, Jordan clung to him, digging her nails into the muscles of his back, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark as she pulled his head down to hers. It was her turn to smile as she felt him tremble, hearing his sharp intake of breath as her tongue lightly traced the contours of his ear, gently nipping the sensitive point as she breathed softly his ear as the Elf continued to move above her.  
  
Freedom. The incredible sense of liberation. Unthinking . . . only feeling. They continued to move in time together; the tempo increased . . . skin gliding smoothly against skin as they soared towards fulfillment. Even if she tried, Jordan couldn't describe the feelings she was experiencing. She would gladly fight a thousand Orcs for a night with him. Nothing else mattered except this moment with Legolas, her body attuned with and responding to his. Legolas' thrusts became more forceful as buried himself deep within her warm, velvety vise, her muscles rhythmically squeezing his plunging elfhood.  
  
Jordan would've died of embarrassment if she could see how wantonly she writhed beneath him, encouraging the Elf, calling out his name, and begging him for sweet release. Legolas was taking her to heights she hadn't dared possible, reserved only in print. So caught up in each other and the sensations engulfing them, the new lovers didn't notice the Lórien leaf start to glimmer between them, the intensity increased with their spiraling passion; mirroring their release, it exploded as well, bathing them in it's soft radiance.  
  
From far away, Jordan heard Legolas call out her name as they climaxed together, their bodies wracked with violent shudders as his essence spilled deep within her. Holding her close, hearts beating wildly, they lay together in the throes of spent passion, their bodies still joined. It was several long moments before Legolas returned to himself; for a blissful moment, he was walking among the stars, blinded by their brilliance, attuned to their song as he found release. Leaning on his forearms, Legolas golden hair fell around his face, touching Jordan's cheek with its softness. He stroked the dampened hair at her temples as her fingers traced his perfect features, marveling at the moment they just shared. Languidly running her hands through his soft hair, she whispered,  
  
"Was this real? Or was it a dream?" In answer, he kissed her deeply, branding her again as his as he moved within her, wringing another gasp of pleasure from her lips as her body responded to his. Only after the feeling subsided was Jordan able to speak.  
  
"You've made your point, Legolas." Jordan whispered, trying to unsuccessfully stifle a satisfied yawn. She felt deliciously tired.  
  
The Immortal was having a difficult time staying awake. It had been quite a day for her. Not only had Jordan dealt more death in one day than she had since becoming Immortal, she had also taken her first lover. Legolas kissed her eyelids closed.  
  
"Sleep now, Melamin." he murmured. Although he could have easily made love to her all night, Legolas knew Jordan wasn't up to it. Not yet, at least. With a sigh, he started to pull out of her but stopped as her arms and legs held fast.  
  
"Don't go . . . not yet." she sleepily protested.  
  
"Amin naa lle nai(I am yours to command), Melamin."  
  
Gladly he obliged. Holding her close, Legolas rolled her over on top of him, his hands stroking her soft skin, grinning as goose bumps formed. Jordan's dark hair spilt across his body like strands of silken nightshade, the contrast against his pale skin stark. Looking down, he saw the stained sheets. Kissing the top of her head, Legolas held her close in a fierce embrace. His heart was full. She had chosen him to be her first, and he was honored.  
  
"Amin harmuva onalle e' cormamin (I shall treasure your gift in my heart)" he swore, stroking her back lightly.  
  
Jordan snuggled closer, burrowing her face against his chest, listening to the comforting, steady beat of his heart. Legolas was filled with a sense of peace he had never known before; looking down at the woman, he smiled contentedly as she sighed in her sleep.  
  
"Quel kaima (sleep well)." he whispered into her ear, chuckling softly at her delicate snore.  
  
Settling against the pillows, he cradled Jordan tenderly. Legolas could tell by her deep, even breathing, that Jordan was fast asleep; taking the utmost care, he rolled her onto her back, where she would be more comfortable. Lifting her limp hand to his lips, he placed a kiss on her palm. Studying the features that haunted his thoughts since he first laid on her, the Elf's bright gaze was drawn to the bandage on Jordan's shoulder. Their vigorous actions and the sweat of their bodies during lovemaking had caused it to come halfway undone. After a quick glance at Jordan's peaceful face, Legolas reached out and gently pushed aside the bandage in order to better view her injury. His blue eyes widened in wonder.  
  
"Unless my eyes are cheated by a spell, there is no wound." he whispered to himself. It was completely healed. In fact, it was gone! He touched it lightly to be certain.  
  
His gaze strayed to the bandage on her upper arm. It had slipped to her elbow, revealing unmarred flesh as well. There was no trace of injury his keen eyes could see.  
  
"How is this possible, Melamin?" the Elf asked the slumbering woman, troubled.  
  
Legolas firmly tamped down the uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. Jordan answered with a soft sigh before she turned onto her side. Questions clamored for answers, yet Legolas forced them from his mind, determined to hold to this moment, but the unease grew stronger.  
  
Legolas kissed the woman's shoulder as he quietly slid out of her bed and drew the bed sheet over her. Fastening the ties on his breeches, the Elf thoughtfully studied the sleeping Immortal as he adjusted the clasps on his tunic. Noiselessly crossing the room, Legolas lingered in the balcony doorway and gave Jordan one last, contemplative look before he turned and disappeared into the night.  
  
A/N: A quick note to the skeptics out there and a couple of things to remember: Jordan was born in 1924, and though she's considered modern, she's also stuck in the 40's - the conservative social norms, gender roles regarding women & their sexuality, etc. I've talked w/some geriatrics (ages 65+ ), and their general consensus regarding today's 'normal' sexual behaviours & family dynamics is not a positive one, and often has them shaking their heads in disgust. Jordan's young by Immortal standards - not even @ the century mark. Give her a couple of centuries (if she keeps her head) to ripen & loosen up. As for the Kama Sutra, I believe (but don't quote me) it was translated by Sir Richard Burton around 1883. 


	22. Come The Horsemen

Disclaimer: Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
". . . When you love, make it last a long time. . . " - Xavier St. Cloud/Unholy Alliance, Pt. II - Highlander, The Series  
  
Come the Horsemen  
  
The stars twinkled brightly in the dark heavens high above; in the main courtyard, the silvery moon lovingly bathed the small gathering of Elves in its argent beams. Gifted with hyper keen senses, the Elysian beings needed no other source of light by which to see one another. The Lords, twin sons of Elrond, stood side by side; bright mithril mail peeked out from beneath their silver-grey cloaks. One after another, they clasped the Golden Elf's shoulder in farewell.  
  
"Quel fara, Melloneamin (Good hunting, my friends)." Legolas said.  
  
"Tenna' ento lye omenta (until next we meet)." Elladan replied.  
  
Beside him, Elrohir sniffed. A peculiar expression settled on his face as he sniffed again loudly, his Elf eyes casting about in alarm. Resting a hand on his brother's breast, Elrohir's nostrils flared as he continued to test the air. Clutching the front of Elladan's tunic, Elrohir pulled him close and sniffed ostentatiously, alarm on his Elven-fair face. Calmly, Elladan pried his brother's fingers apart one-by-one. Loosening his twin's grip, Elladan glared at him as he smoothed down his tunic and resettled his mithril shirt.  
  
"Putta ile amada (stop, you fool)!" Elladan muttered under his breath. His brother ignored him. Instead, the warning spurred him on, for Elrohir began gagging.  
  
"Mani naa ta (what is it)?" Legolas asked, concerned.  
  
The Wood Elf's fair head swiveled about, searching for the menace. Elrohir stepped forward, then suddenly lurched towards the Mirkwood Prince, who easily caught the dark Lord when he stumbled and almost fell. Legolas hauled his friend to his feet, his capable hands supporting him beneath his elbow. Elrohir suddenly was unable to stand; his legs had inexplicably become boneless. Grasping the front of Legolas' tunic in both hands, Elrohir sniffed loudly across the material, then close to Legolas' neck.  
  
"You! It's - its you! Lle holma vee' edan (you smell like a human)!" Elrohir gasped, a look of mock horror on his face.  
  
"Amin muula malia (I don't care). I may smell like a human, but unlike you, you ARE human - at least one fourth of your blood is." Legolas replied with a smile. Grasping their shoulders again, the golden Elf stepped back.  
  
Despite his best effort, beside him, Elladan tried in vain to choke back his laughter, failing miserably as he gave the Mirkwood Prince an apologetic smile. Observing it all, despite the reason for their gathering, Lord Elrond's lips twitched into a smile. It gladdened Elrond's heart immensely to see his sons jest; for too long they were consumed with their self-appointed quest. Legolas grinned and pushed Elrohir away, but not before playfully cuffing him on the ear. Elrohir rubbed his ear soothingly, pretending great injury.  
  
"Serves you right, amada (fool)!" Elladan said.  
  
"Pay him no mind, Legolas. Ho dolle naa lost (his head is empty) and he is envious." Elladan apologized on his brother's behalf. It earned him a punch on the shoulder from his twin. Because they were good friends, the Golden Elf took no offense.  
  
"Your allegiance is misplaced, brother - and the Lady Jordan would've come to her senses eventually and chosen me." Elrohir said, while trying to slap the back of his twin's head. Elladan sidestepped and ducked well beyond his brother's reach.  
  
"Lle naa haran e' nausalle (You are King in your imagination); if that was so, it would be you and not our fair friend here who wears her scent like perfume." Elladan returned.  
  
Clearing his throat, Elrond stepped forward. Immediately, the Lords sobered and faced their father. Legolas watched silently as Lord Elrond clasped first one dark-haired, grey-eyed son to him, then the other in a fierce embrace. The Ruler was no stranger to sadness of the heart. His only daughter had chosen a mortal life. Though he was pleased she found happiness with Elessar, the knowledge that the Evenstar would never join him in the Undying Lands pained him to no end.  
  
Orcs had ambushed his soul mate, Celebrían, and her entourage while en route to Lórien. She had been held and tortured until their brave sons' daring rescue; however, the damage was done, for she had suffered greatly. Though Elrond had used the full extent of his healing abilities, he was unable to heal his love of the darkness and anguish that continued to plague her soul.  
  
Unable to bear it any longer, the Silver Queen sailed over the Sea to the Undying Lands where the Valar alone could restore and heal her. And there she remains, awaiting the arrival of her family. As for his sons . . . ever since Celebrían sailed over the Sea, the twin Lords ranged far and wide thru the lands, obsessed with avenging their mother's kidnapping and torture at the hands of Orcs. Seeking and slaying all manner of fell creatures, Elladan and Elrohir often returned to the home of their birth, to replenish their supplies and remain for brief periods of time before departing again. So long as one Orc lived, they would not rest. The Elven Lord feared for his sons, and often implored the Valar to impart upon them a triple portion of their grace.  
  
"Uuma dela, Ada (do not worry, Father)." Elrohir said, trying to reassure his Lord.  
  
"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au' (My heart shall weep until I see thee again)" Lord Elrond replied, for it could very well be months before he may see them.  
  
"Tenna' san', Ada (until then, Father)." Elladan said, speaking for his brother.  
  
"Will you not wait until the morning, my sons?"  
  
"Nay, Ada; we cannot. The Orc hunt has already delayed our departure. To ease your mind, we will remain within the borders of Imladris, then journey on at daybreak, for our Dúnedain friend awaits our arrival."  
  
The Princes saluted their father before leaping onto their mounts. They left without a backward glance, eager to resume their never-ending quest, for they were determined to spend eternity, if necessary, seeking out and destroying the very last Orc upon Middle Earth.  
  
With a heavy heart, the Elven Lord watched his sons ride away until they were out of sight. Sighing, Elrond walked towards his dwelling; Legolas fell into step beside him. The Ruler's brow furrowed in thought, considering his words before he spoke them aloud.  
  
"How are. . . matters between you and the Lady Jordan?" he asked; Elrond did not need his Gift to determine what had transpired between the Mirkwood Elf and his guest, for as his son observed, the scent of the woman as well as the unmistakable redolence of passion clung to the Wood Prince, but Lord Elrond would much rather hear it from the Elf himself.  
  
"Well and good, my Lord." Legolas replied.  
  
"I am pleased for you." They walked in silence for a time before the Ruler spoke again.  
  
"Perhaps you had better return to her side." Elrond said as he gave a meaningful glance to the Golden Elf.  
  
The younger Elf's serene expression gave nothing away, yet Elrond  
could see the faint flush creep into his cheeks. Imladris' Ruler smiled inwardly. With so much death and destruction wrought upon Middle Earth, it was fitting that a valiant Member of the Fellowship find happiness for a time in the arms of a warm and willing partner.  
  
Legolas touched his hand to his heart, then his forehead before taking his leave. Lord Elrond watched him depart, an indulgent expression mingled with concern on his ageless face; the feeling that this . . . 'moment' would not last was growing ever stronger. For not only was Lady Jordan mortal, Elrond had felt the stirrings of powerful magic. For ill or good, things had yet remained to be seen.  
  
Eager to return to his lover's side, the Legolas' booted feet made no noise as he swiftly moved up the stairs. At the topmost landing, the Crown Prince paused, his heightened senses prickling in response to the strong currents of magic he felt. Standing still, Legolas strained his excellent senses as he looked about, intently studying the surrounding buildings before shifting his sharp focus to the trees in the distance.  
  
Despite his efforts, the Wood Elf saw nothing that was cause for alarm; Elven guards were posted throughout the trees and roamed the paths of Imladris. The considerable power of Lord Elrond, combined with that of its residents would be sufficient to repel any threat, especially one so near to this revered center of learning and peace. Yet Legolas was unable to shake the feeling of being watched. The Elf's blue eyes narrowed. A creature of beauty and magic, like all Elfkind, Legolas knew spells that he employed on occasion. Now was such a time. He raised his hands . . .  
  
#  
  
Gregory lifted the black cloth, revealing what lay hidden beneath. Silver edging on the black velvet pillow gleamed in the light, and upon that pillow sat a crystal ball. Most extraordinary was the nervous, crackling energy in the air -- even Joe could feel it.  
  
"It's, uh, black." Joe remarked, gazing dubiously at the seemingly plain object.  
  
"Why yes, it is." Gregory replied, a smile in his voice.  
  
"I thought you said it was a crystal ball." The Watcher said, confused.  
  
"Not all crystal is clear." Their Host explained sagely.  
  
"What exactly is it?" Joe asked. He glanced at the Highlander, hoping to take a cue from his friend. Unfortunately, Duncan was staring at the ball like it was a lifeline. Methos stepped up beside the Watcher.  
  
"It's called a Seeing Stone." He murmured.  
  
"Among other things." Gregory agreed, gazing at the Stone as if it were priceless.  
  
Feigning interest, Joe nodded; he didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Half the size of a man's head, it was the deepest black in color. Even if it was a 'Seeing Stone', Joe couldn't figure out how anyone could see anything in its dark surface, for there were no cords or other lines to plug into a power source that would light it up from within.  
  
** Hell's bells - you'd think it was the Holy Grail on that damned pillow. ** the Watcher thought privately to himself, looking between the Highlander and his host.  
  
* * I came, I saw, I'm not impressed. * * Joe snorted inwardly.  
  
"Yeah, okay. Well, that was fun. If you don't mind, I need to get some air." The Watcher said. He'd rather be looking at the rare books and maps.  
  
"It is a little stuffy in here, isn't it?" Gregory said.  
  
"You ain't kidding. I think I'll head out side." Joe said, turning to leave.  
  
"Why don't you go this way?" Gregory suggested. He stepped into the shadows and drew aside another partition to reveal a door. Joe wondered how he managed to not see the partition that was directly in front of him.  
  
"Gotta get my eyes checked." He mumbled under his breath.  
  
"Pardon -- did you say something?" Gregory asked as he twisted the doorknob.  
  
"Nah, just talking to myself." Joe replied.  
  
Gregory swung the door open. Followed by Methos, their Host stepped outside into the hazy sunshine; the two men strolled leisurely side by side. Eager to escape the close confines of the small room, Joe hesitated, looking at his charge.  
  
"You coming, Mac?" Joe asked the Highlander.  
  
"In a minute, Joe. I'll catch up with you."  
  
"Suit yourself." The Watcher replied as he stepped outside.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
The Highlander stared back at his distorted reflection in the opaque globe's smooth, dark surface. With a renewed sense of purpose, Duncan concentrated, blocking out all distracting thoughts as he fixed an image of Jordan's face in his mind's eye; once again, he summoned the Immortal Nakano's knowledge of the mystical arts. Faintly at first, then stronger, the Clansman felt the tingling, pounding rush of some mysterious, unnamable force fill him, spreading outward as he exerted his will. His pulse increased, singing in his veins until his blood roared like the sea in his ears as the crystal ball flared to life . . .  
  
#  
  
Was it dawn or twilight - the Highlander couldn't tell. Jordan used her staff to fend off more of those weird creatures. Duncan watched with pride as she dispatched them, frowning when his student was soon out numbered. The Highlander didn't breathe again until he saw Jordan make short work of the four creatures that surrounded her. The scene changed; Jordan was kneeling over someone. He recognized the look of concern on her face as she bent close.  
  
The Highlander read her lips, saying 'don't move'. Jordan gazed intently at something over her shoulder as she reached for her shurikens.  
  
* * What's happening? * * He wondered. The images fuzzed as Duncan's concentration wavered. The Highlander focused and the image sharpened.  
  
"Where are you, Jordie?" he murmured..  
  
As if in response to his question, the scene changed again. It was nighttime. Jordan was asleep. Suddenly, her eyes opened and she sat up, looking right at him as she pushed her tousled hair out of her face. Blinking, Jordan clutched the bed sheet to her bare chest. Duncan frowned. One point he often insisted upon was to never sleep in the nude, for you may then have to fight in the nude. Jordan had primly assured him she never slept in the nude.  
  
* * If - * * Duncan corrected himself  
  
* * When I see her again, we'll have to have a little chat about that.  
* * The Highlander thought as he continued to watch.  
  
"Jordie . . ?" Duncan whispered, wondering if she could hear him. He saw her relax, a shy smile on her face. Suddenly, his student was gone, her image lost as the ball darkened.  
  
"No!" Duncan cried aloud.  
  
Desperately, the Highlander commanded the Seeing Stone to respond to his will. It flickered but revealed nothing. Gritting his teeth, Duncan clenched his hands into fists as he willed Jordan to appear again -- to no avail. She was gone.  
  
#  
  
~ ~ Jordie . . ?~ ~  
  
"Lietha guldur (dispel magic)." Legolas murmured, finishing the incantation.  
  
The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes dissipated. Legolas cast a glance over his shoulder and murmured a word of power to reinforce his spell. . . just in case, before continuing on his way. Entering his lover's quarters, Legolas was surprised to discover Jordan sitting up in bed, the sheet clutched to her chest.  
  
* * I'm dreaming. * * The Immortal told herself.  
  
One moment she was lost in the oblivion of rest, the next Jordan swore she heard Duncan's voice in her ear, plain as day, whispering her name. The Immortal visibly relaxed when she saw Legolas; blinking, Jordan could hardly sit upright as she hid a wide yawn behind a delicate hand; she gave the Wood Elf a soft, sleepy smile, making a valiant effort to keep her eyes open, briefly unsure if the Elf was a part of her strange dream.  
  
Jordan thought no more of her dream when Legolas' lips curved in a slow, sexy smile in return. Hair tousled from his hands, the woman radiated contentment and satisfaction, still flushed with the afterglow of their lovemaking. Jordan bit her bottom lip as she watched her lover approach, turning the two words over in her mind. Her lover.  
  
She liked it. With a lazy smile, Legolas divested himself of his clothes and leisurely stalked towards the woman, nude. The Elf's graceful movements would make a cat jealous. Legolas claimed Jordan's lips in a devastatingly tender kiss, branding her once again as his. Gently pushing her back onto the pillows, the Elf stretched out beside the Immortal and watched his reflection in her eyes.  
  
"I thought you were gone." she murmured; Jordan's voice was so faint -- even to her own ears, the Immortal wasn't sure if she thought the words or said it aloud.  
  
"I will not leave you, Melamin." He murmured huskily, nuzzling her neck. Raising himself on an elbow, Legolas cradled his head in his hand and trailed his free hand down Jordan's side, smiling as she quivered beneath his touch.  
  
Cupping her breast, Legolas gently kneaded it as his thumb brushed over her nipple, teasing it to a hard bud. His mouth soon followed. Jordan turned onto her back and closed her eyes as he began to suckle and kiss her breasts, reacquainting himself with her flesh. Much as she wanted to repeat the experience, unfortunately, all Jordan could do was sigh with delight; she was simply too exhausted to do otherwise. Even Immortals needed to rest.  
  
The Elf grinned widely. If Jordan were willing, he would make love with her again - this time well into the morning. After all, he thought, Elves are superior to Men in so many ways. Alas, his lover was clearly not up to it . . . not yet, he thought smugly. Legolas watched Jordan's eyelids droop before fluttering open; the cycle repeated itself several times. It would be a matter of seconds before her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and Legolas wished to spare her the indignity.  
  
"Go to sleep, Melamin." The Prince whispered in her ear.  
  
"I can't when you're doing that." Jordan replied tiredly.  
  
"Doing what?" Legolas queried.  
  
"That." She murmured as his hands and mouth fanned the recently stoked embers of desire.  
  
Chuckling softly, Legolas stopped his ministrations; now that he had claimed her as his own, the Elf would wait. Already Jordan's eyes were closed as she passed into slumber. Studying her features, the Elf wondered how old Jordan was; in reality, there was precious little he really knew about the woman beside him. No matter; that too, would change.  
  
Though the elements did not affect him, for Jordan's sake, Legolas drew the bed sheet over them and wrapped an arm around her waist; pulling her close, Legolas spooned Jordan against his groin as he curled up around her, his elfhood stirred to life at the nearness of her; however, there was nothing he could about it. For now.  
  
In the meantime, the Legolas concentrated on bringing his body under control, contenting himself with breathing in the sweet and unique scent of his lover's skin. Kissing her shoulder, Legolas snuggled Jordan closer as his mind to drift into a light reverie.  
  
#  
  
Gregory looked down at the Eldest who was seated upon a fallen log; he sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Remember Thanatos: whether or not we tread the path that lies before us or veer away from it . . . and for those who walk beside us or fall away - there is always the freedom to choose. "  
  
Methos looked up sharply but said nothing. He hadn't heard that name in centuries, and the Ancient One didn't care to be reminded of his past . . . misdeeds. He watched the older gentleman slowly make his way back to his shoppe, passing the Watcher on the way.  
  
"I'll see you inside." Gregory said. Joe nodded; he wanted to stay outside a bit longer.  
  
"Nice little forest. Anything else to see other than trees?" the Watcher asked. Overhead, the squirrels chattered loudly, scolding the noisy birds in the leafy branches.  
  
"There's a village not far from here with a most delightful drinking establishment. But I must warn you - the folk can be quite colorful."  
  
"'Colorful'. That doesn't sound like a bad thing." The Watcher mused.  
  
"You should see it for yourself sometime." Gregory replied.  
  
"Maybe later." Joe said.  
  
"Indeed." The older gentleman said with a strange smile on his face as he walked away. He was almost to the door when the Highlander emerged, clearly distracted.  
  
"Duncan, are you all right?" Gregory asked.  
  
"No - yes. I don't know. I think I need some air." The younger man said. His host nodded.  
  
"Take your time, Duncan." He replied as he disappeared back into the shop.  
  
Duncan's mind was reeling with what was revealed to him. He needed to sort it out and make sense of the situation. Up ahead, he saw the Ancient One seated upon a fallen log. Methos looked lost in thought, not reacting when Duncan made his way towards him.  
  
"Methos - are you ready to head back?" He called as he approached his friend.  
  
"Yeah, sure." The Old Man replied; he seemed preoccupied.  
  
"Everything all right?" Duncan asked.  
  
"It will be." Methos answered.  
  
"What about you? Are you ready to leave?" the Ancient One asked the  
younger Immortal. The Highlander nodded.  
  
Methos climbed to his feet. Walking in silence, the Men were busy  
with their own thoughts as they followed Joe back inside.  
  
#  
  
After bidding Gregory goodbye, the Immortals dropped the Watcher off at his bar before continuing on to the barge. Brooding, Methos sat at the stern watching the waves lap against the barge. Sunlight reflected off the water made it look like a sea of brilliant diamonds. The cool breeze off the water ruffled his dark brown hair. On deck, the Halcyon was seated on the green park bench, watching his reluctant host pour him a cup of coffee. It was up to Caine to break the stony silence.  
  
"Its been a long time, Duncan." The Halcyon commented.  
  
"Not long enough." Came the snide reply.  
  
"You're not still mad at me, are you?"  
  
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Duncan replied sarcastically. He had half a mind to throw the blonde Immortal overboard.  
  
"Oh come on, MacLeod - you won. Kalas is dead. Thank you, by the way. You did the Immortal community a huge favor." Glaring at his Elder, Duncan hesitated before nodding.  
  
"You're welcome." The Clansman replied.  
  
"Besides, it must've been some Quickening, eh? No hard feelings?" Caine asked, holding his hand out.  
  
The Highlander considered refusing the apology. Though he was an active participant in the Game, Duncan, like the Halcyon, preferred to live his life in peace. What he didn't appreciate was being the butt of a practical joke-especially if it could potentially cost him his head. Still, he had to admit - it had been quite a Quickening.  
  
Duncan considered his options; his circle of friends had diminished over the years. Jordie's disappearance had driven that unpleasant fact home. Other than his propensity for practical jokes, the Halcyon was basically a decent guy at heart, and the fact that he was married to another Immortal validated the Elder's moniker. It would be nice to have friends who were still among the living. Duncan grasped the Halcyon's hand, squeezing it a little harder than necessary. A grin of satisfaction spread across his swarthy face as Caine winced.  
  
"No hard feelings." The Scot replied. Pulling his hand back, Caine flexed his fingers, trying to restore his sense of feel.  
  
"What have you been up to, Caine?" Duncan asked. The older Immortal's lips lifted in a quirky grin.  
  
"I live - obviously. And thanks to Meredith, I love. Mostly I write, occasionally I fight. Life goes on as usual. Same old, stuff, different day. So, what about you, Duncan - what brings you to the city of Love?" Caine asked. The mischievous grin irked the Highlander, reminding him of the ignominious time they first met. But then again, Duncan was fairly new to the Game . . .  
  
: : : :  
The Knave's Haven  
London  
1671 A.D.  
  
After a night of drinking and carousing, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decided to call it a night. Pleasantly tipsy but still in command of all his faculties, the Highlander stepped outside and breathed deeply. The cool night air was a welcome change from the closed, stuffy pub. Still, it was his kind of place; the ale was good, the music lively and the buxom bar wenches friendly; though the air reeked with the smell of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air, it reminded the Highlander of his happier days back home with the Clan. Taking a step, Duncan tripped over his feet and almost tumbled to the ground before catching himself.  
  
Chiding himself for taking a little more drink than usual, Duncan argued with his inner self; wasn't it his prerogative? After all, he'd just celebrated his 79th birthday. Alone. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, for he would be hard pressed to explain to the Clan why he hadn't aged, or the fact that he healed fast. Faster than what was natural. The Immortal turned his thoughts away. It was easier to not dwell on his banishment, for that life was lost to him forever. Duncan hadn't gone far when he noticed a scruffy bloke watching him intently from across the way. Not in the mood for a scuffle, the Clansman kept to his side of the street, close to the buildings. Behind him, the scraping of footsteps on the cobblestones alerted him to the fact he had unwanted company.  
  
Duncan continued on his way and started to weave, pretending to be more inebriated than he appeared. It wasn't long before five scoundrels stepped away from under cover of the shadows and slowly approached.  
  
"I don't want trouble." The Highlander said, holding his hands out.  
  
"I doon care what ya want. I want yer coin purse, ya dumb bastard -- give it to me!" The leader of the pack snarled; his thick Cockney accent made it hard for the Highlander to understand his words.  
  
"I doon think so." the Highlander replied, deliberately slurring his words. His dark eyes counted the number of men surrounding him. Five to one - unfair and just the way he liked it.  
  
"Let's change his mind, boys."  
  
At his signal, the others followed, drawing their knives and swords. Whipping out his broadsword, the Highlander prepared to defend himself. Momentarily cowed, the bandits hesitated; their prey wasn't as helpless as they thought. With a shout, they leaped upon the Highlander.  
  
Caine Spencer ambled down the cobblestones in search of a pub in which to quench his thirst when he felt the Buzz. An Immortal. Following the pull, his footsteps slowed as he came upon a free for all in the middle of the street. Bandits had set upon a hapless man, intent on robbing - and possibly more. Cloaked by shadow, the Immortal took a minute to gauge the situation, studying the sword technique of the embattled man. Thwarting two ruffians, the Highlander thought he was doing well - until he felt a blade slash his back as he was briefly distracted by the Buzz.  
  
"Not bad. . . he could use some pointers, though." Caine said to himself, watching the stranger deflect several knives, their wielder's intent on plunging the blades into their victim's flesh. Cain's eyes searched out each individual; Duncan met the Halcyon's eyes.  
  
"A fellow Immortal requires my assistance." He murmured. Caine drew his sword and rushed to help. With the arrival of his benefactor, the Highlander and the Halcyon drove off the last scoundrel. Panting, Duncan warily nodded his thanks, dividing his attention between the Immortal and the scurrilous bandits as they skulked back into the shadows, soundly defeated. The Highlander doubted they'd molest anyone else for a time.  
  
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Macleod." The Scot's brogue was heavy. Caine smiled.  
  
"Caine Spencer. I'm not here for you." He said, nodding towards the broadsword the Clansman wielded. The Halcyon thoughtfully appraised Duncan MacLeod.  
  
"You're new to the Game, aren't you?" he asked. Silently, the Highlander sized up the Immortal before him, trying to determine if he could be trusted.  
  
"I can help you --- teach you the finer points of swordplay." The Halcyon offered. Duncan snorted.  
  
"You? You're but a mere boy! What can you possibly teach me?" Duncan scoffed in disbelief, looking the Halcyon up and down. He doubted the youth before him could offer anything of value.  
  
"Never underestimate your opponent." Caine replied coolly, sensitive about his youthful appearance. At times it proved to be detrimental, for other Immortals he encountered often had similar reactions, and refused to take him seriously. But then again, sometimes it was advantageous during a Challenge.  
  
"En garde!" Caine struck the Highlander's broadsword with his blade.  
  
"I doon think so." Duncan replied, backing away.  
  
Caine followed. Surprised with the ferocity of the youth's attack, it was all Duncan could do to hold him off. Before the Highlander could counter, the Halcyon lunged and stabbed him thru the heart. The look of disbelief on the Scots face was comical. Caine watched him sink to his knees as his life slowly drained away.  
  
Wiping his blade on the Highlander's shoulder, Duncan swallowed hard as Caine's sword rested against his neck. The Highlander closed his eyes in anticipation of the killing blow. It never came. Instead, he fell, face forward onto the cobblestones. With a sigh, the Halcyon sheathed his sword. They needed to take this lesson elsewhere, away from mortal eyes.  
  
#  
  
The Highlander revived with a gasp, the dull ache in his chest evidence of the mortal wound he'd received from Caine Spencer. Sitting up, Duncan looked around. He was in an alley, refuse strewn about the ground. Dusting himself off with disgust, the Highlander climbed to his feet. Seated casually upon a wooden crate was the Immortal whose acquaintance he'd just made.  
  
"Took you long enough." The Halcyon complained.  
  
"How did you get me here?" The Highlander asked. Surely the youthful looking Immortal hadn't carried him all this way by himself? Looking about, Duncan saw so no other soul around.  
  
"With my magic carpet. What do you think you dolt? I carried you." Caine answered.  
  
"Why didn't you take my head?" Duncan asked, suspicious as he struggled to his feet.  
  
"You were at a slight disadvantage. Besides, I don't kill for pleasure." Caine replied calmly as he drew his blade.  
  
"Pick it up." The Halcyon said, indicating Duncan's broadsword. Caine jumped off the crate, calm and confident. Sword in hand, he approached the Clansman, the tip of his blade pointed towards the ground.  
  
"Your move." The Halcyon said. Duncan looked at him, flabbergasted.  
  
"I doona want to fight you." The Highlander insisted.  
  
"Sometimes your wants don't matter in the Game. Survival does." The fair Immortal said.  
  
Caine lunged again; this time, Duncan managed to block his thrust. Unfortunately, the Highlander lasted all of ten minutes - eight minutes longer than before, when he was stabbed thru the heart again. The Halcyon retreated to the crate and sat down, grinning.  
  
Sometime later, Duncan's eyes opened. He turned towards the crate to see Caine seated comfortably on top. Stifling a groan, the Highlander climbed to his feet, using his broadsword to assist.  
  
"En garde." The Halcyon took up a fighting stance, a half smile on his face. This time, Duncan was determined to best him and wipe that grin off his face.  
  
"Uhnhgh." With a sigh, Caine seated himself once more upon the crate as Duncan kissed the filthy cobblestones. The Halcyon winced.  
  
"Sorry, Highlander - I thought you were going to fall on your side." The Halcyon told Duncan's lifeless body.  
  
The Halcyon waited for him to revive. When the Highlander's eyes opened, Caine remained seated. Growling with frustration and anger, Duncan brandished his broadsword aloft.  
  
"Come on!"  
  
Taking his time, Caine got of his crate. The cold night air rang with the sound of their blades scraping. Sparks flew as they fought. With a quick flick of his wrist and a twist of his sword, Caine disarmed the Highlander and stabbed him thru the heart. Again. With a sigh, the Halcyon settled once more onto his crate, wiping the blood on the hem of his cloak. And waited.  
  
When the Highlander revived, Caine reached a hand down. With a glare, Duncan caught it.  
  
"Point made." He grudgingly told the Elder. The Halcyon smiled as he pulled Duncan to his feet.  
  
"C'mon, I'll buy you a pint." Caine offered, clapping the Highlander on his back. It was a small, yet hard learned lesson; Duncan would think twice about judging someone based on appearances alone. : : : :  
  
"To answer your question, I'm taking a break from . . . things." Duncan said, reluctant to go into detail. He poured himself a cup of coffee. The Halcyon studied the younger Immortal.  
  
"Look, I know why you're here, Duncan. Adam said you were searching for someone; I hope you find her." the Halcyon said, he sounded sincere.  
  
"I hope I do, too." The Highlander replied. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their beverages, each thinking their own thoughts.  
  
#  
  
Tossing in turning in bed, Duncan moaned; the woman's shrill voice rang in his ears.  
  
* * MacLeod - - you will bury many women, but you will marry none - you will always be alone! Do you hear me?! Alone! * *  
  
The Highlander sat up, wild eyed and drenched in sweat; he looked around  
the dark room, disoriented. Calming, Duncan untangled the bedsheets and ran his hands thru his hair as he thought about his Gypsy lover. After all these years, Carmen's words were self- fulfilling.  
  
Hopes and dreams . . . joy and pain - Immortals felt the same emotions humans do, albeit to varying degrees; were they so very different from the mortals they silently moved amongst thru the Ages? Duncan seriously doubted it, for They loved and hated, as well. Immortality did not nullify their humanity. Were they doomed to walk the earth alone? Was he? The battles that never ended, the lovers that moved in and out of his life like shadows, never to stay beyond what amounted to him but a fleeting moment in time. The Immortal friends he lost. The losses weighed heavy at times. It was a lot of emotional baggage to carry around for centuries.  
  
It didn't matter. If he had any say in the matter, Duncan planned on  
keeping the friends he did have as long as he could. Prophesy or not.  
  
* * Jordie. * * His eyes narrowed; he repeated her name in his mind like  
a mantra.  
  
The Scot threw the sheets back and pulled a shirt on. Walking to the sofa, he briefly debated on whether to wait until a reasonable hour before deciding there was no time like present. Duncan shook the his friend awake. Not a good idea; the Highlander felt the Ivanhoe's steel bite as Methos' single handed broadsword rested against his neck.  
  
"Whoa, wake up, Methos." Duncan said calmly, waiting for Methos to fully waken..  
  
"MacLeod?! What the bloody hell are you doing? I could've taken your head!" Methos blinked. Slowly, the Highlander pushed the blade away from his neck. After a moment, Meths resheathed his sword  
  
Even Duncan had to admit startling the Paranoid One from sleep was a death wish. For someone who supposedly wasn't an active participant in the Game, the Old Man could certainly move quickly when he wanted to. Methos was not pleased, to say the least. After drinking beer, sleeping ranked high among his favorite activities. .  
  
"Let's go, Methos."  
  
"Go where? What time is it, anyways?" Methos looked at the Highlander with an incredulous expression.  
  
"Early." Duncan said flatly as he turned to go to the head.  
  
"I realize that. I was sleeping, you know." The Ancient called after him.  
  
"Key word being: 'was', Methos. You're not now. Call Joe, would ya? Tell him we'll be there soon to pick him up." Duncan's words floated back.  
  
"You know, even we need to sleep - there's no rule against it. It is allowed!" Methos yelled as the head door closed. It opened briefly when Duncan poked his head out.  
  
"And coffee - coffee's good!" the Highlander called out before he shut the head door again.  
  
Grumbling, the Ancient One yawned, resigned to the fact he was awake and would remain so. When MacLeod got an idea into his head, he hung on to it with tenacity like a bulldog. Methos reached for the phone; it took ten rings before the Watcher answered.  
  
"Yeah." The Watcher's voice was rough with sleep.  
  
"Be ready in half an hour." Silence.  
  
"Adam?! Do you know what friggin' time it is?"  
  
"Yeah - it's Miller time."  
  
"Get your own damned beer. Bar's closed. Why the hell are you callin' at this hour?" Joe asked.  
  
"Because your boy's up before the birds, Joe." Methos listened to Joe's colorful cursing.  
  
"Fine." The Watcher hung up without saying goodbye.  
  
Fixing a strong pot of coffee, Methos drank three cups before the Highlander emerged from the head freshly showered, a towel wrapped around his waist.  
  
"Your turn." He cheerfully announced.  
  
"Yeah, well its your turn to do dishes." The Elder shot back.  
  
"You're getting grouchy in your old age, Methos" Duncan commented.  
  
"I'm entitled to be." Methos returned as he drained his mug and placed it in the sink.  
  
The Ancient One made his way to the head, wondering what the day would hold for them.  
  
A/N: Thank you to Raq for Beta'ing and help re: the 'love scene'; also, appreciation re: reviews goes out to: Tweaky Monkey, Kaio, and Dakki. It's amazing how a review can really encourage an Author to continue w/the story. Also, if you're interested in learning more about Caine Spencer, here's a link to Gerald Lamb's site who created him: 


	23. Till They Meet Again

Disclaimer: The character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon is on loan w/o permission from Gerald Lamb. Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, but to their respective owners/lawyers. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
" . . . 'Tis better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt." - Abraham Lincoln  
  
Till They Meet Again  
  
Clad only in leggings, the Wood Elf leaned against the balcony doorway and faced the sunrise. He watched the golden shafts gradually pierce the gray dawn, spreading warmth and light, awakening the flowers, which in turn unfurled their fragrant petals to greet the early bright. It promised to be a glorious day. The sighing of the wind in the trees and the songbirds' sleepy calls made Legolas smile until a different sound caught his attention.  
  
His sharp ears pricked and his head turned towards the source; Legolas tracked the sound in the hallway. The steps were soft, the stride light yet purposeful, and it was coming. Pushing away from the doorframe, the Elf collected his tunic as he walked towards the bed. He gazed down at his lover and softly pressed his lips to hers in a fleeting kiss. Jordan smiled in her sleep before rolling onto her stomach. Donning his tunic, the Elf didn't bother to fasten the clasps as he strode to the door before the knock could awaken Jordan.  
  
Pulling the door wide open, the Mirkwood Elf almost smiled at Ceallach's surprised expression. Legolas quickly slipped a hand under the tray the servant was carrying as the covered dishes began to slide off, not missing how the Ceallach's eyes widened as she took in his state of undress. Legolas' warrior's braids were undone, the golden locks tucked behind his pointed ears. From her angle, the maiden could see well into the room; despite herself, the servant's eyes flicked over to Jordan's sleeping form. Blinking twice, Ceallach then looked between the woman and the Mirkwood Elf. Realizing that she was staring, the she-Elf remembered herself and discretely averted her gaze.  
  
"M-My Lord. . !" Ceallach stammered softly as she delicately cleared her throat. The she-Elf expertly adjusted the tray, tilting it so the dishes slid back into place.  
  
"Good morn, Ceallach." Legolas said his voice low and amused.  
  
"Good morn, Prince Legolas." The Elven maiden answered quietly, composed once more.  
  
"Something for the Lady, to break her fast." She explained unnecessarily.  
  
"Thank you, Ceallach. Please, allow me." The Wood Elf said, relieving her of the tray.  
  
"Thank you, my Lord." She replied. The Elven maiden stood in the hallway, waiting.  
  
"Yes, Ceallach?" Legolas prompted, lifting an eyebrow.  
  
"I must collect last night's tray, my Lord." She answered.  
  
"By all means." The Elf stood aside and allowed Ceallach to pass, closing the door softly behind her.  
  
Taking the morning tray back from the Prince, Ceallach entered Jordan's chambers. Her observant gaze swept the room, noting the Mirkwood Elf's boots by the bed, and Jordan's sleep shift draped over the back of a chair. The woman was still sleeping; the bed sheet had slipped down, revealing Jordan's bare back and the gentle swell of her bottom. Her long, uneven, black hair flowed across the pale sheets like a dark river.  
  
Ceallach set her burden upon the table and quietly lifted the previous night's tray, nodding her thanks when Legolas opened the door for her. The she-Elf was about to leave when she turned back. Surprised to see the Prince of Mirkwood in the Woman's quarters, Ceallach almost forgot she was to give the Wood Elf a message.  
  
"My Lord, a courier arrived for you before dawn."  
"Is it urgent?" he inquired.  
  
"I do not know my Lord. The scroll has been delivered to your quarters." The she-Elf replied. Legolas nodded.  
  
"Thank you, Ceallach."  
  
The maiden bowed before taking her leave, stealing one last glance over her shoulder before she hurried away. Legolas closed the door quietly and smiled. Without doubt, most - if not all of Imladris would soon know where and with whom he had spent the night. Legolas didn't care. All the better, so other Elves would know the Lady was taken and to whom she belonged.  
  
As he waited for Jordan to rouse from slumber, Legolas changed the water of the Athelas plant in the golden chalice before quietly building a small fire in the hearth. Normally up at this hour, the fact Jordan was still fast asleep attested to her great weariness. Judging by the position of the sun, Legolas knew it was almost the seventh hour of the morning; a glance at Jordan's still form showed no sign of her awakening anytime soon. In fact, she hadn't stirred once since turning onto her stomach.  
  
Seated at the table, Legolas lifted a heavy, silver lid revealing spiced oatmeal cakes. Breaking one in half, he liberally spread orange honey and butter upon it. Sipping hot herbal tea, Legolas ate and watched his lover sleep, remembering the feel of her beneath him. . .his hands on her warm, soft flesh. . .her enthusiastic response. He was not mistaken about that.  
  
In reaction to last night's erotic memories, Legolas' elfhood began to swell; he shifted in his chair, as his leggings grew uncomfortably tight. The Elf was sorely tempted to wake Jordan by making love to her once again, yet he decided against it; Legolas would put thought to action later, for he wished to be uninterrupted when he next loved her. Curious to know what the message was, Legolas finished his meal and dressed. Pulling his boots on, the Elf covered Jordan and gently kissed the top of her head before exiting thru the open balcony doors.  
  
#  
  
Jordan gradually returned to consciousness as the sweet, silver sound of a lark's joyful melody disturbed the Immortal's rest. Her mind slowly awakened as her eyes slitted open. Blinking several times until her vision came into focus, Jordan knew from the brightness of the room, the sun was high in the sky. Rested, healed and refreshed, Jordan's lower body was sore in a different, delicious way; knowing it wasn't because of the battle, a slow blush spread across her cheeks and her lips curved into a wide, satisfied smile. The fantasy had become reality. . .and Legolas did not disappoint, rendering her first intimate experience well worth the wait.  
  
* * Legolas . . ! * *  
  
Raising herself onto her elbows, Jordan looked around to discover she was alone. The room felt so empty without him, yet Jordan was glad for the solitude, for it allowed her to reflect upon the previous night's events. Hugging the pillow Legolas used, the Immortal buried her face in it and breathed in the Elf's scent: woodsy, fresh. . . special. Legolas was everything good, clean and fragrant in nature in one gorgeous, skillful, wonderful package. And he was in her bed last night. Hers! Jordan couldn't seem to stop smiling. Stretching languorously, the Immortal's stomach rumbled.  
  
"Lovemaking certainly works up the appetite." She said aloud.  
  
Crawling out of the bed, Jordan wandered over to the table, nude, in search of her shift. She was certain Legolas had draped it over the back of the chair last night. On a whim, she opened the armoire to find it was neatly hung. Jordan smiled in appreciation. There were certain things she couldn't stand, and clutter was one of them.  
  
Collette once mentioned how Edgar J. Mumford III, her butler, discretely mentioned it was most undignified for a young lady of her social standing to have a telltale trail of clothing left for him to pick up when his employer and her current beau would be taken in a fit of passion. Of course, Collette would then launch into a detailed description of the raunchy sex she and her lover would have. Jordan sometimes wondered if her friend did it just to embarrass her. . .  
  
: : : : "Don't be such a prude, Jordie! When you find the right guy, believe me, you can't get enough. And Tarik - he's the One!" Collette rolled her eyes in ecstasy.  
  
"Isn't that what you said about your last boyfriend?" Jordan asked skeptically.  
  
"We all make mistakes. He wasn't the One." Her friend replied matter of fact.  
  
"So, what's the criteria of being 'the One'?" the Immortal asked. Collette looked at Jordan conspiratorially.  
  
"Oh, lotsa things. But a huge deciding factor depends on how he does between the sheets. If he satisfies me, he can stay the night and maybe he gets an invitation back. If he bores me or just plain can't light my fire, I kick his ass out of my bed, have Mumford show him the door and write it off as a loss."  
  
"Alley cat!" Jordan teased. The blonde ran her pink tongue over her top lip suggestively.  
  
"Meow. . !" Collette purred as she crossed her legs, sat back in her chair and casually draped her arm over the back of her chair.  
  
Several men at the next table over snapped to attention, for the movements caused the blonde's tight pencil skirt to ride up and her chest to jut forward, straining the top buttons of her tailored suit jacket. If Collette smoked, the Immortal could very well imagine her lighting up a cigarette. Jordan had to admit that her friend, though vulgar at times, was highly entertaining.  
  
"My parents should've named me 'Mercy', because that's what all the boys say afterwards: Mercy, mercy, mercy!" The blonde said smugly.  
  
"But, Coll - what about diseases . . .?"  
  
"Don't worry, Jordie. No glove, no love. Life's too short. I won't be young forever, so I sure as hell plan on enjoying myself - safely - while I can before gravity hits. Besides, if he's potentially bed worthy, I won't sleep with them until their medical background check comes back."  
  
"What?!" Jordan exclaimed.  
  
"It all comes down to money, Jor. They say it can't buy happiness, but it sure can buy the next best thing and a helluva lot of other stuff. When the time comes, I plan to have a close relationship with a good plastic surgeoun - the best Hollywood has to offer." Collette said wisely.  
  
Collette smiled at Jordan's incredulous look. The Immortal studied her friend as she bit into her burger. Collette Ashford Hamilton of the Virginia Hamiltons was an interesting person, to say the least. At first glance, the blonde could be dismissed as simply another W.A.S.P. Delicate, refined features and perfect bone structure spoke of well breeding. Impeccable manners saw Collette thru dinners with high society as well as the working class, which, after making her acquaintance, was an immense part of her broad appeal. The blonde was at equally at ease shopping at the local discount retailer as she was ordering a haute couture gown. Directly from the designer.  
  
Collette hailed from old money, was educated by one of the best academic institutions west of the Mississippi, and could easily have married money and led a life of comfort and leisure. Yet Jordan's spirited friend also had a rebellious streak that compelled her to buck tradition, much to her family's express disapproval, for the independent blonde carved out an impressive niche for herself in corporate law. It saddened Jordan to know one day their friendship would end, for time would ravage her mortal friend, but would leave Jordan untouched.  
  
"Honey, if it'll affect my health, I want to know. You can't be too careful. Besides, that health information hogwash --"  
  
"Health information portability accountability act." Jordan helpfully provided.  
  
"Yeah, that thing - it only covers so much; lots of other information is available and beyond its reach. With everything in life, if there's a will, there's a way to get it. You know what I say? 'No regrets, Baby'. Let me tell you what I did to Tarik last night. Do you know the amazing things you can do to a guy with a glazed donut ."  
  
"Stop! I don't need to hear this. Too much information, Coll."  
  
"I swear, Jordie - you sound just like my grandmother."  
  
"You talk about your sex life with your grandmother?!" Jordan asked with a horrified expression on her face as she took a large bite of her chili cheeseburger. Collette leaned forward and fixed her pale blue eyes on the Immortal.  
  
"No - but if I did, she'd sound just like you! I swear, sometimes you act as if you were born a couple decades too early! Don't be so virginal. It's so not you. You know what they say: 'All work and no play makes Jordan an Old Maid' - or something like that." Jordan raised an eyebrow at that but didn't comment.  
  
"So, was your last guy dynamite between the sheets? Was he good at bringing you to the big 'O'?" her friend eagerly asked.  
  
A handsome, dark haired man in an expensive business suit walked by their table -well within earshot - just as Collette asked her bawdy question. Jordan choked on her food; as if that wasn't bad enough, her eyes started to tear up. The Immortal was certain she would next be spewing spicy chili chunks thru her nose if she didn't clear her windpipe soon.  
  
"Stop it, Jordie - I don't know C.P.R." Collette hissed as she thumped her friend on her back.  
  
Red faced, Jordan glared at her friend as she coughed uncontrollably. With a concerned expression on his handsome face, the man stopped to assist.  
  
"I believe the Heimlich maneuver would work better in this situation." He interjected as he moved to stand behind Jordan.  
  
The Immortal waved them both away, and braced her hands on the table, attempting to dislodge the chili in her throat. Taking a step back, the man placed Jordan's soda before her; gratefully, the Immortal took a sip.  
  
"Will you be okay?" He asked kindly; Jordan could only nod in response as she wiped her mouth and nose.  
  
"She'll be fine, Hon. Just in case she's not, what's your number so she can call you?" Collette asked, slanting a coquettish look up at him. Holding up his left hand, the thick gold band on his finger glared back at the blonde.  
  
"Too bad." Collette murmured, fluttering her lashes at him. He simply smiled before turning to Jordan.  
  
"Are you sure I can't get you anything?" he asked.  
  
"Thank you - I'll be fine." Jordan gasped with a weak smile.  
  
With a nod to the Immortal and a wink to Collette, the man walked away. Collette unexpectedly thumped her friend on the back once more for good measure. Jordan's glare was lost on her friend as the blonde wistfully gazed after the handsome man's retreating figure before she resumed their previously interrupted conversation.  
  
"So, was he?" Collette persisted.  
  
"I can't believe you, Coll! Can we please change the subject?" Jordan exclaimed as she took another sip of soda.  
  
"Not till you answer my question. Well - spill! What happened?" Jordan's green eyes followed the man in the business suit.  
  
"I didn't get the chance to find out. We were . . . interrupted." The Immortal's lips tightened at the memory.  
  
"Couldn't get the mood back?" Collette asked sympathetically.  
  
* * More like 'Didn't want to' * * Jordan thought to herself.  
  
"No." Jordan said her tone curt.  
  
"Oooh - did I hit a nerve or something?" Collette asked; her gossip radar was going haywire.  
  
"Or something." Jordan said tersely. The blonde made an exasperated noise.  
  
"Jor, am I going to have to pry every single detail out of you?"  
  
"Of course!" the Immortal cheerfully replied. Collette glanced at her watch.  
  
"Some other time, Jordie. My lunch break is over, and the boss is going to have my head if I'm not back, pronto. Speaking of head, I read an article with tips on how to give --"  
  
"Collette!"  
  
"Fine. I smell a good story. Don't think this is over - consider it postponed. I'll call you later, okay? In the meantime, page 104. I strongly suggest you read it. Slowly."  
  
With a smirk, the blonde casually tossed the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine on the table. A soft breeze ruffled the glossy pages and blew it open to an article entitled '10 Surefire ways to get your Lover Hot'.  
  
"It's a sign, Jor!" Collette declared as she waggled her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her friend. Jordan laughed as she watched her friend gather her purse before she walked away.  
  
"Tootles, Jordie!"  
  
"Stay out of trouble, Coll!" the Immortal called after her.  
  
"Never!" her friend replied.  
  
The blonde tossed a kiss over her shoulder, leaving Jordan to stare after her with an exasperated smile. And the check. : : : :  
  
#  
  
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, the same face looked back at Jordan, but . . .  
  
"I feel different. I feel . . . alive." The Immortal murmured before she laughed at herself, fully aware there was no outward physical change.  
  
Later, Jordan planned to visit the House of Healing. Surely Læurenthail needed help, and maybe she'd in turn be willing to help Jordan with her hair. The Immortal walked to the table and raised a domed lid; the fresh fruit looked tempting, as did the oatmeal cakes, yet Jordan instead chose a large piece of Lembas for breakfast. She was starting to develop a taste for the enchanted Elvish foodstuff, often preferring it to something more substantial.  
  
Brushing the crumbs from her hands, the Immortal began to make her bed, humming softly to herself when she happened to glance down; Jordan's eyes widened in dismay when she saw the dried blood on the otherwise pristine sheets.  
  
"Oh no!" she breathed. Quickly gathering the soiled bed sheet, Jordan brought water from her pitcher and poured it on to the sheet. She rubbed the material together, which only made the stains spread instead of fade.  
  
"Damn." She whispered to herself.  
  
Jordan could only imagine what fuel it would provide for the rumor mill. Certainly gossip transcended cultures, times and realities. For a moment Jordan considered throwing the linen into the fire.  
  
"No. . . willful destruction of Lord Elrond's property isn't an option, Jordie." she said aloud.  
  
For reasons of her own, Jordan was quite reluctant to have the Elves handle the soiled sheets. Especially if Legolas was spotted leaving her quarters.  
  
Clutching the linen to her chest, Jordan sat down heavily onto the feather mattress.  
  
"Maybe they'll think I'm on my period." She reasoned. Even if that were the case, Jordan didn't want someone else to clean her sheets; it was a quirk of hers that no one would know of her body functions, much less her intimate activities.  
  
* * Wait - do Elven women have periods? * * Jordan wondered.  
  
* * Don't be stupid, Jordie. Elves have relationships, too. * *  
  
"Yeah, but with Women? They'll know we were together last night."  
  
* * You like him, he obviously likes you. Big deal. * *  
  
"But I don't want to advertise the fact we slept together last night." She told herself.  
  
* * The Elves have better things to do than worry about with whom you're sleeping with; nor is it a matter of Rivendell security. Everyone's going to find out sooner or later that you and the Elf are lovers. If you're smart, you'd choose sooner. * * Jordan couldn't argue the logic of her rational mind.  
  
There was no way around it; she would have to wash it by hand herself. Emptying the medicinal satchel, Jordan stuffed the soiled linen inside. Hurriedly gathering her toiletries, Jordan wrapped them in a clean dressing robe and tucked it under her arm as she pulled open the door. Ceallach breezed in before Jordan could think of a plausible excuse to bar her entry.  
  
"Ceallach!" the Elven maiden's name came out as a squeak.  
  
"Good morn, Lady Jordan." The maiden replied; she held a fresh set of linen in her arms.  
  
Was Jordan imagining it, or did the she-Elf's eyes hold a knowing gleam? The servant didn't ask why the bed was already stripped as she quickly and efficiently made the bed. With her task completed, the she- Elf gathered the used linen  
  
"Er, good morn, Ceallach. Thank you for making the bed. Uh, I was just on my way to the bathing room." Jordan said.  
  
"Where is the other sheet Lady Jordan?" the she-Elf asked, frowning as she looked about the room. The Immortal remained quiet as Ceallach's gaze settled on the satchel in Jordan's hand. In her haste, Jordan failed to notice a length of linen spilling out of the satchel.  
  
"Is the sheet within?" the servant asked, walking towards her. Jordan gave the she-Elf a weak smile.  
  
"Let me see to it for you, Lady." Ceallach reached for the sheet.  
  
"No, no - I'll take care of it." Jordan replied, backing away.  
  
"It is my duty to attend these matters. Lady Jordan, please - !" Ceallach caught hold of the sheet.  
  
"Ceallach, no - I'll wash this." The Immortal insisted.  
  
"My Lady, please!"  
  
Sternly the servant gazed at the woman. Ceallach couldn't understand why Lord Legolas bore with humans. They could be unreasonable as well as emotionally unstable, and behaved like unruly children. Reluctantly, Jordan surrendered her linen to the most determined she-Elf.  
  
"Thank you, Lady Jordan." Ceallach sniffed, mentally adding 'unpredictable' to the undesirable qualities inherent to Mortals.  
  
#  
Returning to his quarters, Legolas' eyes fell upon the scroll resting in the middle of the bed. Ignoring it for the moment, the Wood Elf bathed and changed his raiment. Sprawled comfortably upon the bed, the Elf opened the hard leather case and tapped out the scroll. He immediately recognized the imprint exclusive to the Royal House of Mirkwood. Legolas' eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he broke the wax seal.  
  
"Father is never one to write letters." the Prince mused to himself. Unrolling the scroll, the elegant, Elvish script was written in his father's bold, flowing hand. Legolas quickly scanned the parchment.  
  
"Nor does he favor lengthy correspondence." He murmured softly, for the missive was brief and to the point.  
  
With a sigh, Legolas re-rolled the scroll and returned it to its case. The Wood Elf calculated he must leave no later than daybreak on the morrow to arrive in time. A seasoned warrior, Legolas was accustomed to speedy travel at a mere moment's notice.  
  
The Mirkwood Elf's thoughts turned to Jordan, and his discovery of her lack of injuries. The answers he sought would have to wait until his return, unless . . . she was to accompany him. Yes! Legolas thought, liking the idea immensely. Should the Lady agree to accompany him, he could both keep her close as well as attempt to subtly draw from her the answers which he sought as they traveled together.  
  
Legolas decided he would ask Jordan. Rising from the bed, the Mirkwood Elf sought out Gimli, for he needed to speak with the Dwarf, and request from Lord Elrond the necessary provisions required for their soon departure.  
  
It did not take the Prince long to locate the Elf-friend, for within Imladris, there were only three places where the Dwarf was sure to be found: the eating halls, the smithy or the tannery. It was at the latter where the Prince found his friend for the Dwarf was having the handles of his small throwing axes wrapped with new leather. He silently watched the Dwarf heft and swing the axes, testing the grip before throwing them at a thick wood stump. Grunting his satisfaction, Gimli turned to see Legolas leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"What are you about, Laddie?"  
  
"Searching for you, Spangaer (bearded One); I am summoned home for a distant relation's Binding Ceremony. Will you join me?"  
  
"How long do you plan to stay?" Gimli asked. The Elf shrugged.  
  
"A fortnight. Maybe less. What say you?"  
  
"Nay; I have matters to attend to here, and wish to prepare for our journey to Gondor. I have been corresponding with King Elessar about restoring the White City, and am expecting his reply."  
  
Legolas wasn't surprised the Dwarf chose to remain in Imladris; not overly fond of travel by horseback, it did not help matters that the Elf Prince's father, King Thranduil had held Gimli's father, Glóin, against his will for a time. Although he and Gimli's friendship was steadfast, it was much too soon to expect the long held prejudices between the Elves and Dwarves to be reconciled in so short a time. However, the fact that Gimli and Legolas called each other 'friend' was a step in the right direction towards restoring good will between the two cultures.  
  
"Very well, Mellon (friend); should you change your mind, I plan to leave early on the morrow." Gimli grunted and turned his attention back to his throwing axes.  
  
"And what of the Lady?" Gimli asked as he retrieved his weapons. Squinting at the newly wrapped handles, the Dwarf adjusted a section of the leather wrapping.  
  
"I have yet to ask her to accompany me." Legolas replied.  
  
"Really?" Gimli looked at the Elf, his bushy eyebrows raised with interest.  
  
"Really." With a smile, the Elf turned to leave as the Dwarf chuckled.  
  
#  
  
The Watcher groggily eyed the Immortals as they entered the bar.  
  
"You guys just couldn't wait for the morning, could you?"  
  
"It is morning, Joe. I had nothing to do with it. Talk to MacLeod here. Besides, a Watcher's job is never done." Methos flippantly countered, absolving himself of any blame. The Ancient one slid onto a stool and laid his head down on the counter.  
  
"Smart ass." Joe muttered. "Hell, it doesn't matter anymore. What's up?"  
  
"Grab your coat, Joe." Duncan instructed as he leaned against the counter.  
  
"Where we going?" the Watcher asked.  
  
"Back to Gregory's." the Highlander replied.  
  
"That's what I thought you said. Mac - it's early. The guy may not even be open."  
  
"He'll be open for a friend." Duncan said confidently.  
  
Joe sighed; it was useless to argue with the Immortal when he set his mind to something. The Watcher went to his back office and retrieved his favorite plaid blazer. Shrugging into it, Joe returned to the bar; Methos was already outside; standing beside a waiting taxi; the Old Man was talking on his cell phone. Duncan was still inside, waiting for his Watcher.  
  
"Do you have someone to mind the bar, Joe? This could take all day if Gregory's not in."  
  
"Yeah, there's nothing important that I need to see to. 'Sides, Lou's good; he'll manage the place just fine." Duncan slid off the stool.  
  
"Then let's go." The Highlander said.  
  
"Keep checking with Gregory until we get back. Yeah . . . thanks. Gotta go." Methos murmured into his cell phone.  
  
The Ancient tucked his phone away when the Watcher and the Highlander came outside, quietly watching as Joe locked the doors to the bar. The taxi ride to Gregory's shop was quick and uneventful, one of the advantages of traveling before the morning traffic rush. Standing outside Gregory's shoppe, the Highlander and his Watcher waited as Methos paid the driver. Turning to his charge, Joe raised a grey brow.  
  
"You sure this couldn't wait until normal business hours?" Joe asked skeptically.  
  
"Yes, I am." Duncan replied.  
  
"Okay, Mac - why are we really here?" The Watcher asked tiredly.  
  
"Like I said, Joe -- I need to talk to Gregory"  
  
"And you need me here for that?!"  
  
"You're my Watcher; right?"  
  
"Yeah, so? That doesn't mean we're attached at the hip, Mac." Joe said, giving his charge an exasperated look.  
  
"Which is why you followed me to Glenfinnan." Duncan answered with grin  
  
"Round one to MacLeod, Joe." Methos said, overhearing the exchange; Joe gave the Old Man a dirty look and ignored the comment. Methos silently gazed at something down the street before he turned away.  
  
"I saw her." Duncan said quietly.  
  
"Who?" the Watcher asked, confused. He looked first in one direction of the rue, then the other; there was no one else around save the trio outside the shop.  
  
"Who do you think, Joe? Jordie!" The Highlander replied. Joe perked up at the good news; his face broke out in a smile.  
  
"Wait a minute - Jordie? You saw her? That's great! Where was she? Across the street? Which way was she headed? Let's go get her."  
  
"I saw her in the Stone." Duncan said.  
  
"In the Stone?" echoed the Watcher uncertainly, not sure he was hearing the Immortal correctly.  
  
"In the Stone, Joe." The Highlander repeated again.  
  
"Why can't things ever be simple with you Immortals?" Methos snorted at that comment and muttered something Joe didn't quite catch.  
  
"You got something to say?" Joe asked, turning towards the other Immortal; the Ancient One merely smiled and held his hands up in mock surrender; irritating Joe was something of a favorite past time, especially when the Watcher was cranky to begin with.  
  
"If only it were that simple, Joe." Methos murmured softly as he peered into the store. The lights were on, but no one was inside.  
  
"Well, let's see if anyone's home." Duncan said.  
  
The Highlander rapped sharply on the glass pane then rapped again. The interior brightened as a light came on. With a smug expression on his face, Duncan turned to his companions.  
  
"See? He's in."  
  
Gregory appeared; recognizing his visitors, a smile broke out on his whiskered face as he hurried towards the door. The sound of the tumblers turning seemed inordinately loud in the quiet early morning as Gregory unlocked the door, pulling it wide open.  
  
"Well, look who's here bright and early! Your timing is perfect. Come in - come in. I was about to have a spot of tea. I insist you join me."  
  
Duncan followed, apologizing to the older man as he led the men to his study; Gregory good-naturedly waved aside the Highlander's words, instructing them to sit; their host passed around a plate heaped with buttery croissants as he poured the tea. Methos chose to stand as Joe and Duncan seated themselves in the chairs across from Gregory  
  
Gregory gave no outward indication that he thought it odd to be entertaining unannounced guests, discussing mundane matters over a very early breakfast -- before daybreak, as a matter of fact. The Highlander cleared his throat, unsure how to broach the topic. Current events, antiques and history - yes, but . . . magic was not something he discussed on a regular basis.  
  
To acknowledge it was one thing, to use it was another; the essences of other Immortals whose Quickenings the Highlander received over the centuries - their skills, knowledge and powers, he used without conscience effort or thought. However, to specifically seek and successfully command the abilities of the Sorcerer - and for it to actually work was yet an entirely different matter. It took a little getting used to. Even for Duncan. The Highlander gave his companions a pointed look. The Eldest took the hint.  
  
"I believe it's time we go." Methos said as he placed his empty teacup on the tray. Gregory looked at him with a tiny, secretive smile hovering around his lips as he rose and walked with the Ancient One towards the partition. Gregory lowered his voice, his words meant for the Old Man alone.  
  
"It is time. You know the way, do you not?" their host asked. Methos nodded slowly.  
  
"We'll find it." He replied with a confidence he did not feel.  
  
"The way is open, Thanatos." Gregory said as he pushed the heavy drape aside and opened the door.  
  
"Hey, Adam, wait up." The Watcher called. Methos paused in the entry as Joe climbed to his feet.  
  
"Joe, are you sure you want to do this?" he asked his friend.  
  
"Whaddaya mean? Of course I do. It's only air." Joe said.  
  
"Wouldn't you rather take a walk down to the boulangerie (bakery) out front?" Methos asked.  
  
"They're closed, Adam, remember? We're up before the cocks crow. What - you tryin' to get rid of me?" Joe asked.  
  
"You're a pretty sharp guy, y'know that, Joe?" the Ancient One said sarcastically. Their good natured bickering continued and faded as the men took a walk in the pre-dawn forest. Their host watched them until they disappeared around the bend. Leaving the door open, Gregory returned to the waiting Highlander.  
  
"What's on your mind, Duncan?" Gregory asked.  
  
"Gregory. . . I know this may sound strange, but.well, that crystal ball of yours really works."  
  
"It does?"  
  
"Gregory, please don't play games with me. That Stone of yours -- I saw Jordie in it. I actually saw her. The question is: how is it possible?" Duncan asked.  
  
The Older gentleman rose and gestured towards the alcove where the others had passed. Duncan stood and walked towards the room.  
  
"Duncan, sometimes we see what is, what has passed . . . or what has yet to come to pass. Have you stopped to consider that you're close to your goal - closer than you think?" Gregory asked. The Highlander just stared at him.  
  
"What does your heart tell you about Jordan?" The older gentleman asked. They were standing at the doorway.  
  
"That she's alive." The Highlander was becoming frustrated, for the conversation was going in circles.  
  
"Then hold to that. Sometimes the heart knows what our eyes do not see." Opening the door wider, Gregory looked out towards the woods.  
  
"Go with your friends, Duncan. They are waiting for you. A stroll invigorates the mind, as well as the body. . . And could lead to enlightenment as well. Perhaps you will discover that for yourself." The older gentleman smiled and moved aside to allow the Highlander to walk past.  
  
Although the Highlander wanted to get a more conclusive answer from the older gentleman, Duncan found himself doing as Gregory suggested. Framed in the doorway, Gregory crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. He waited until Duncan disappeared around the bend before he closed the door and drew the partition, once again concealing the entry.  
  
#  
  
"Come." The Half-Elf bade; looking up from the scrolls, Lord Elrond watched as Legolas entered the Ruler's library and stopped before his desk. The Wood Elf's head was bowed in respectful deference as he waited to be addressed.  
  
Though the Ruler's timeless face was composed, inside Elrond was chuckling. It was now common knowledge throughout Imladris that the Mirkwood Prince had spent his night and early morning with the Lady Waters . . who yet slumbers.  
  
"Legolas, how may I be of service to you?"  
  
Legoas' head jerked up and his body stiffened. He felt . . . something. A ripple of awareness spread out, alerting his keen senses. The Mirkwood Prince shifted his ocean blue gaze to the Ruler.  
  
"Did you feel that, my Lord?"  
  
"Aye, Prince." Elrond replied warily.  
  
"What do you suppose that was?" Legolas asked. Elrond's eyes took on a distant look as he used his Gift to decipher the disturbance.  
  
"Something stirs in the west . . . what it is, I cannot say for certain, Prince." Legolas nodded. The Wood Elf thought back to the previous night, when he felt the gaze of unseen eyes.  
  
"Until that which is hidden makes itself known, what may I do for you?" Having no choice but to deal with the present situation at hand, Legolas regretfully stated his reason for coming.  
  
"My Lord, I have been summoned home. I must leave soon, no later than daybreak by the morrow. I expect to be gone a fort night."  
  
"Do you travel alone?" Elrond inquired.  
  
"I've asked the Lady Waters to accompany me, however, she does not wish to travel by horseback. Master Gimli also has elected to remain behind to tend to his correspondence with King Elessar . . . and, I suspect, because he too is not fond of traveling by horse. May I impose upon your hospitality on their behalf a while longer?" Legolas replied.  
  
"You need not even ask. Provisions will be supplied. Please send your father my regards."  
  
"Thank You my Lord. By your leave, I will make haste to depart." Legolas touched his hand to his heart, then his forehead before taking his leave.  
  
#  
  
The Healer assisted Jordan with her hair as requested; the Immortal's formerly waist length raven hair now reached to the middle of her shoulder blades. Jordan didn't count the missing length a total loss, for her head felt lighter, and the ends curled up slightly - courtesy of her paternal grandfather.  
  
* * Whew! Glad to finally be outta there." * * the Immortal told herself.  
  
From the moment the Immortal appeared in the House, and no matter what part of the House she went, all conversation ceased for a beat before the Elves would begin to whisper amongst themselves in their musical language. Jordan didn't doubt they were talking about her, for the Elves - whether they were Apprentices, Healers, or seeking aid, would either send a sly look her way, a smile, or would titter behind their hands; it was an extremely disconcerting and uncomfortable feeling.  
  
Relieved to get away, the Immortal returned to her quarters. Once inside, Jordan stopped short when she saw Legolas. He was outside leaning against the balcony railing with his back towards her. Quietly closing the door, Jordan briefly touched her hair, wondering what he'd think before she quickly smoothed her gown down; she had not taken two steps when he turned around.  
  
"Hi." She shyly greeted the Elf. It was the first time she'd seen him all day, since waking up alone in her bed.  
  
"Hello. Jordan, I must speak with you." Legolas said as he walked towards her. The Elf studied Jordan's face as he caressed her cheek. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he held her close and kissed her; she felt it all the way to her toes.  
  
"Okaaaay . . . about what?" She asked cautiously.  
  
"I have received a summons from my father. He bids me return to my home in Mirkwood."  
  
"Oh." Jordan didn't know what to say or how to react.  
  
* * Yeah, right. Whatever. Here it comes. This is the part where he tells me: 'last night was great, can you find your way out?' I guess Nanay and all my Aunties were right, I should've waited until marriage. * * Jordan thought sardonically to herself.  
  
The Immortal wondered if this was the Elven equivalent of 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am - don't call me, I'll call you.'  
  
"My presence is required for a distant cousin's binding ceremony."  
  
"And what exactly is a 'binding ceremony'?" Jordan asked.  
  
The images in her mind weren't exactly pleasant; her maternal great-great-great grandmother had had a 'binding' ritual performed as a child, where her toes were broken and bound - wrapped tightly and over time, contorted to resemble a lotus bud, symbolizing gentility and high birth. Jordan shuddered. She vaguely heard what Legolas was saying.  
  
"Jordan?" the Elf asked. Coming out of her reverie, Jordan looked at Legolas blankly.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"What is your answer?" the Prince asked with a smile on his face. Jordan knew if she were to lose her head today, the image she wished to see before she died would be the Elf's smile.  
  
"Answer? What was the question?" Legolas looked at her oddly and sighed inwardly.  
  
It was unfamiliar ground for the Elf; not ever lacking offers for female companionship, Legolas never before asked a female to accompany him - home, that is, for he'd never felt even the faintest desire to bring one home to Mirkwood.  
  
"I was hoping you would consider accompanying me. I would like to show you my home. And introduce you to my father." Legolas said.  
  
"Meet your Father?!? Well, uh.I'm honored. I really don't know what to say." that was the last thing Jordan expected him to say.  
  
"Say you will accompany me." Legolas encouraged, hoping she would agree.  
  
"When are you leaving?" she asked.  
  
"Before daybreak on the morrow." He answered.  
  
"So soon?" the Immortal asked. Legolas nodded, watching her face, wondering what she was thinking.  
  
"Is Gimli coming?" Jordan asked.  
  
"Nay; there are matters he needs to tend before we journey to Gondor." Legolas replied. Jordan mulled it over in her mind, mentally ticking off the pros and cons in her head, she had more cons than pros.  
  
* * Let's see. No indoor plumbing, Legolas seeing me at my less than best, at least two days riding hard on horseback, no less . . . Nope, can't do it. * *  
  
Much as she wanted to spend every waking (even sleeping) moment with the Elf, the thought of roughing it in the most primitive conditions did not appeal to her.  
  
"Uh, we-ell."  
  
"You will not accompany me" Legolas stated flatly, seeing her decision in her eyes.  
  
Jordan could not tell from his outward expression if he was angry or upset, but she could sense his disappointment. Back peddling to take the sting out of her unsaid answer, she tried to reason logically.  
  
"You'll travel faster without me. I'll only slow you down. I also promised Laurenthail I would help Ciercë gather herbs and stuff to restock the stores before the season changes."  
  
"I understand. If that is your decision, then may I ask something of you?" Legolas replied. The keen disappointment was yet another new, unfamiliar feeling for the Elf, yet he could not argue with her logic and reluctantly accepted her decision.  
  
"That depends . . . if I can." Jordan answered slowly.  
  
"Promise me you will not do anything. . . rash while I am away." The Elf lifted a shortened lock, brushing it across his lips. Legolas felt the stirrings of desire in his belly, burning its way down to his loins.  
  
"And how would you define 'rash'?" Jordan asked; the simple act made her pulse quicken just a little.  
  
"Promise me you will not attempt to return to your home before I return. Will you do that for me?" Legolas murmured.  
  
Jordan looked at the Elf , speechless, for the thought had not crossed her mind. The Immortal dared not read too much into his words, not wanting to presume too much, yet at the same time, unable to quell the yet unrecognized emotion that swelled in her breast. Legolas kissed her softly, then more insistently. Jordan's arms encircled his neck as she pressed herself against him, moved that Legolas would want to find her in Rivendell when he returned.  
  
"Mmmm . . . "  
  
"Will you swear to it?" Legolas asked.  
  
He didn't give her a chance to reply as his lips covered hers once more. Sliding his hands down her sides, the Immortal was lost in his kiss, not noticing his fingers gathering her gown, gradually inching the velvety material upwards.  
  
Their lips never once lost contact as the Elf slowly backed them towards the bed, determined to seduce, if necessary, the answer he wanted from her. Sitting upon the edge, the Mirkwood Prince's long fingers grasped Jordan's hips and pulled her astride his lap, settling her directly onto his hardened elfhood, the soft leather of his breeches was the only barrier between them. Under the hem of her gown, Legolas slipped a hand between them and inserted a long finger into her warm folds. If his hand wasn't at her back and holding her steady, Jordan was sure she'd topple over. She literally felt like putty in his hands.  
  
* * There're definitely benefits to not wearing panties. . ! * * Jordan dazedly thought.  
  
The Elf unerringly found the hidden bundle of nerves and expertly manipulated it, making Jordan gasp as her head fell back, unable to stifle the low moan that escaped her lips. The Immortal rose up slightly on her knees to allow him greater access. Legolas decided he much preferred a naked Jordan in his lap; with his free hand, he moved to rid the Immortal of her clothes. Thinking the same thoughts, Jordan doffed her gown as the Elf untied his breeches, freeing his swollen member of its uncomfortable confines.  
  
Legolas swirled his tongue around one nipple, before drawing as much of the soft flesh in his mouth, gently biting and suckling, before repeating the action to her other breast; grasping Jordan's hips with his hands, he held her over his elfhood. Gritting his teeth, the Prince continued to hold Jordan away, even as she teased the pointed tips of his ears with her tongue, determined to make her promise to wait for him. Jordan's eyes were dilated and cloudy with desire.  
  
"Swear to it." Legolas murmured huskily.  
  
"Legolas . . . !" the Immortal breathed, clutching his shoulders. Looking into his azure eyes, Jordan didn't think she could refuse him anything.  
  
"Swear to it, Melamin. . . " The Elf seductively urged his lover. Watching her face, Legolas slowly impaled her upon his stiff member, stopping only after lowering her a few inches. Jordan strained to fully complete their union, but the Elf wouldn't allow it. . . just yet.  
  
"I swear I'll . . . be here. . . when you . . . come . . . back." Jordan moaned.  
  
Satisfied with her answer, Legolas rolled Jordan over and sank his full length into her; the cords in his neck stood out as he forced himself to keep to a slow, steady pace until his lover became a writhing, frenzied mass beneath him. The Elf intended to leave Jordan (as well as himself) with a vivid memory of them together, lost in bliss until he was once again by her side.  
  
A/N: Happy new year to all! Hope its off to a good start for you & yours. My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter; it underwent some major re- tweaking, and I decided to take a little break to enjoy the holidays w/my family.  
  
FYI: the Chinese practice of foot binding can be traced from the Sung dynasty until the practice was banned when the Manchus began the Quing dynasty; of course, it (foot binding) started w/royalty & the higher classes, but w/everything, it passed to the commoners who hoped to improve their social standing.  
  
Thank you to Raq & SerenaD for their help/Beta skills! And to the following for their reviews:  
  
Tweeky Monkey, dewey 263, Risika, T.Ali, Poppy, SAILOR MOON and Emma Rose. Emma Rose, I tried to reply to your review, but my message bounced back; as for the rest of you fine folk, I'd reply personally to your reviews as well, but was unable to b/c your e-adds were unavailable - but that's okay! Thank you for taking the time to write a line or two. It's always nice to hear from the readers what your thoughts are. As for the questions, they will hopefully be answered; it may be a while, only because the flashbacks take a while to write, what - between real life & finding the time to write the story. But please - bear w/me!  
  
BTW, BelasVoice has an incredible work in progress entitled "In Loving Memory" (story i.d.# 1610740). If you're in the mood for an excellent story/writing, by all means, please check it out - (at FF.Net) you'll like this portrayal of Legolas. Prepare to be wow'd! 


	24. Inamorata

Disclaimer: The character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon is on loan w/o permission from Gerald Lamb. Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, nor am I profiting from them/this story. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated; as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
Artist: Mel Carter  
  
Song Title: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me  
  
Hold me, hold me  
  
And never let me go until you've told me, told me  
  
What I want to know and then just hold me, hold me  
  
Make me tell you I'm in love with you  
  
Thrill me (thrill me), thrill me (thrill me)  
  
Walk me down the lane where shadows  
  
will be (will be) will be (will be)  
  
Hiding lovers just the same as we'll be, we'll be  
  
When you make me tell you I love you  
  
They told me "Be sensible with your new love"  
  
"Don't be fooled, thinking this is the last you'll find"  
  
But they never stood in the dark with you, love  
  
When you take me in your arms  
  
and drive me slowly out of my mind  
  
Kiss me (kiss me), kiss me (kiss me)  
  
And when you do, I'll know that you  
  
will miss me (miss me), miss me (miss me)  
  
If we ever say "Adieu", so kiss me, kiss me  
  
Make me tell you I'm in love with you  
  
(Kiss me) kiss me, (kiss me) kiss me  
  
When you do, I'll know that you will  
  
miss me (miss me), miss me (miss me)  
  
If we ever say "Adieu" so kiss me, kiss me  
  
Make me tell you I'm in love with you  
  
(Hold me, thrill me)  
  
(Never, never, never let me go)  
  
(Hold me, thrill me, never, never, never let me go)  
  
(Fade...)  
  
Inamorata  
  
King Thranduil thrust his staff at the closest squire; ignoring the silent retinue of advisors gathered a discrete distance behind him, the Elven King shunned protocol and gathered his son to him in a brief but fierce hug.  
  
"Do not tarry long until your next return home, my son." The Elder Greenleaf quietly instructed the Prince, feeling a sharp pang of sadness as he bid Legolas farewell.  
  
"I hope I will not be alone when I do, Father." Legolas replied.  
  
"That is my wish as well, Little Princeling. Go then, with the blessings of the Valar." King Thranduil said with a gleam in his eyes as he released his son. The Mirkwood Elf gave his Sire a crooked smile and chuckled softly, for his father had not called him by that pet name since he was but an Elfling.  
  
Waiting patiently as father and son said their farewells, the Elf  
holding the horse's bridle spoke soothingly to the beast, but in vain, for the horse would have none of it. Prancing impatiently, Arod tossed his head and neighed, eager to be away. Taking pity on his subject, King Thranduil touched Legolas' face once more and, with a slight inclination of his head, granted his son his leave. Gracefully vaulting onto his horse's back, Legolas gathered the reins and saluted the King as Arod reared slightly and wheeled away. With a thunder of hooves, they were off.  
  
Sighing, King Thranduil signaled the waiting squire and took up his carven oak staff, watching the beloved figure of his son rapidly shrink into the distance and beyond his sight, before retiring to his private chambers. Deep within the bowels of his underground dwelling, in the quiet of the room, the Elven King sat upon his favorite chair and gazed into the fire, pondering Legolas' unusual behavior . . .  
  
: : : : The slight weight of the diadem resting on the Crown Prince's brow felt unnatural; it had been decades since he'd last worn this particular symbol of his rank and station, and he hadn't forgotten why - it was a nuisance. Without fail, the leaves always caught and pulled at the strands of his golden hair. Legolas much preferred a simple headdress - like the crown he had worn at Aragorn's coronation, but the Prince acquiesced to his father's wish that he wear this particular crown for the Binding Ceremony. Similar in fashion to that which encircled the Mirkwood Ruler's head, Legolas' wreath-like headdress was also made from the purest silver, but was more understated in comparison, whereas his father's crown gleamed with the cool luster of pearls and sparkled with brilliant diamonds that caught the hazy sunlight, burning with an inner fire.  
  
Seated upon his outdoor throne, King Thranduil surveyed the open courtyard; colorful flowers of the season were in abundant bloom, their soft petals strewn upon the forest floor, carpeting the ground with their delicate colors. Festooned in the trees were garlands of leaves and berries, and fine spun ribbons fluttered gracefully in the light breeze. Save for the sentries' watchful guard at the borders of his woodland kingdom, all the Mirkwood Elves were in attendance for the joyous occasion. Satisfied with the gathering before him, the Elder Greenleaf's ancient gaze settled on his son. Garbed in resplendent robes of shimmering green, gold and bronze, Legolas stood tall and proud as he performed his duties expected of him. Thranduil's heart swelled with paternal pride; more so as his son's regal bearing caused many a she-Elf to sigh with admiration and the highest regard for their Prince.  
  
During the three-day feast following the Ceremony, King Thranduil's attention oft focused on the Prince. To the delight of the maidens, Legolas danced with one and all, regardless of birth or title. However, much to the dismay of both maidens and their matrons alike, the Crown Prince never once favored one maiden over the other. Legolas' cordial, yet remote demeanor only brought out the maidens' competitiveness and determination to be the one to catch the elusive Prince's eye; many employed subtle tactics, all geared towards winning Legolas' attention, in the hopes of securing his affection and with it, the coveted title of 'Princess'. Their best laid plans were for naught, Thranduil noticed, for when given a moment's reprieve from the constant presentation of eligible maidens, Legolas resorted to a tried and true method of escape - to Thranduil's side, where, in keeping with etiquette, no one dare approach uninvited. Standing by his father, the Elven King saw when the Prince's blue eyes, so like his own, often take on a distant look.  
  
At first the Mirkwood Ruler thought nothing of his son's moody behavior; however, since the Crown Prince's return home, Thranduil often found Legolas outside, gazing up at the stars or standing in the dark with his amaranthine face turned towards Imladris. After the conclusion of the festivities, the King visited Legolas in his private chambers and questioned him; deeply concerned that something was amiss. After reassuring his Lord that all was well, Mirkwood's King was most delighted to learn his son's distraction involved a 'maiden'. Her identity remained a mystery as Legolas declined to provide more details beyond that. The Prince assured his father that, in time, all would be revealed when matters between him and his maiden were certain.  
  
In the days following, Thranduil's kingdom was abuzz with speculation, wondering who is this maiden that managed to capture the Prince's attention, for it was reported to the Elven King and confirmed by the royal silver smith himself, that Legolas commissioned a piece of jewelry of his own design to be made -- and with all haste, for it must be ready for the Prince to take with him when he returned to Imladris. Thranduil smiled; it looked promising. Since coming of age, Legolas never lacked for willing partners. Despite the many dalliances and lovers his son took over the centuries, the King knew Legolas never before commissioned a portrait, much less a piece of jewelry in which to give a maiden. On several occasions, the King almost dispatched a courier to Imladris to inquire after the maiden's identity, yet he always refrained, and Thranduil bid his court follow his example, requesting his subjects respect the Crown Prince's privacy. After all, if Legolas, as one of the Nine, was instrumental in saving Middle-earth from the coming Darkness, King Thranduil knew his son could be trusted to know his own heart. : : : :  
  
"Ya naa lle (who are you)?" Thranduil muttered aloud, once again wondering who the mystery maiden was.  
  
Now that his oath to protect the Ring Bearer had been fulfilled, and his wanderings with the son of Glóin was done, a fine she-Elf would be just the thing to put an end to Legolas' senseless cavorting with Mankind. Whoever this maiden is, the Elven Lord hoped she would be the one to cease his son's restless wanderings. It was high time for the Prince to settle down, and it was also the King's fondest hope to see his son happily bound, and eventually produce an heir.  
  
#  
  
"What is this?! The lot is ruined!" Ancalimë, the Head Baker growled, gesturing towards the trays. His winged brows were drawn down in a dark scowl. Turning towards Pallanén, his mid-Apprentice, the Baker's scowl deepened. The young Elf swallowed nervously.  
  
"M-Master, this is not of my doing." stammered the Elf.  
  
"If not you, who then? Speak quickly, for my patience wanes. There is yet much to do and the day waxes late." It was the wee hours of the morning, but the Apprentice had the fortitude of mind to not point that fact out to his Master.  
  
"L-Lady Jordan, Master - she wished to assist the Apprentices in the kitchen. I did not refuse her for she was most persuasive." Pallanén barely heard the continued ranting of the head Baker as the mid-Apprentice thought back to the even before . . .  
  
: : : : Exploring other areas in which to help earn her keep until it was time to travel to Gondor, the Immortal decided to pay a long overdue visit to the kitchens. Jordan was set to work scrubbing, peeling and chopping potatoes. By her fifth sack of the starchy tuber, Jordan was certain she didn't want to see another spud for a while, disliking the dusty, gritty feel of the skins that coated her hands.  
  
Curious to discover the way Lembas was made; Jordan washed her hands and wandered over to the bakery. Some of the pastries and other breads were already in the ovens, filling the kitchens with their delicious aromas. After introducing herself to Pallanén, a newly minted 'mid-Apprentice', the Immortal watched him painstakingly measure out precise amounts of flour, water, salt and other ingredients; Pallanén was in the middle of mixing the dough when another Apprentice called him away to see to an urgent task.  
  
The mid-Apprentice was torn, for the summons arrived at a most inopportune moment. To stop now would run the risk of a ruined batch. Seeing the indecision on the Elf's face, Jordan seized the opportunity to prove herself useful and offered to take the Elf's place - after all, how difficult could it be to mix the dough? After a moment's hesitation, Pallanén reluctantly accepted Jordan's offer, leaving her to see to the Lembas dough -- but only after giving the woman explicit instructions. Jordan took the wooden spoon and continued to mix, her mind wandering to the night before and the wonderful things Legolas had done to her body. Blushing, the Immortal cleared her throat and glanced around, fearful the Elves would guess the reason for the wide smile on her face.  
  
Turning her attention back to her task, Jordan was surprised to see the mixture hadn't changed appearance. In fact, her arm was beginning to tire from the repetitive motion; switching hands, Jordan mixed faster; scraping the sides of the bowl, no matter how much air Jordan incorporated, nothing had changed from the time she took over from the Apprentice.  
  
* * It is most important you do not deviate from my instruction, Lady Jordan. * * the Immortal remembered the Elf's parting words before he hurried off.  
  
"Maybe Pallanén was wrong. This doesn't look right." Jordan murmured to herself.  
  
The dough was still wet and stuck to the spoon. Reaching for the measuring cup, she added more flour, shaking in a little at a time. As an afterthought, Jordan added a pinch more of the other dry ingredients and five extra eggs as well. Attacking the mixture with determination, the Immortal was pleased when a ball finally took shape and became elastic in texture  
  
Although the task had taken Pallanén longer than he anticipated, when he returned, the mid-Apprentice was pleasantly surprised to find the dough (though a darker yellow in color than usual) had been mixed, kneaded and pressed into trays and left to rise overnight. He thought nothing more, and after thanking Jordan for her assistance, moved on to the next task of the day. This morning, the dough had been enchanted as usual and placed in the ovens. What came out were five ruined batches (of varying degrees) of the Elvish Waybread and the Middle-earth equivalent of unusually dense hardtack. : : : :  
  
* * Where did it all go wrong? * * Pallanén wondered. The tips of his ears itched unbearably as they always did when he was anxious, yet he dared not scratch them in the presence of his Master.  
  
* * Lady Jordan assured me she followed my instructions. * * the Elf thought, puzzled. No matter; it was a moot point and the damage was done. Blinking, Pallanén once again focused on what Ancalimë was saying. . .  
  
" . . . I cannot further allow such waste. If the Lady Jordan wishes to assist in baking, see to it she does so without causing ruin to all she touches, else the blame rests upon you!"  
  
"Yes, Master." Pallanén said meekly, his eyes downcast.  
  
"Very well." Ancalimë gestured towards the misshapen lumps cooling on  
the trays.  
  
"Throw it out and begin again. From this moment, I only wish to learn that the Lady Jordan placed the dough in the ovens - not prepared it. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, Master." Pallanén replied, relieved to have not received a demotion in duty. He had only recently attained the position mid-Apprentice and did not wish to be relegated to the task of dishwasher again. Even for a day. With a sigh, the mid-Apprenticed called several low-Apprentices to assist him in gathering the ruined Lembas together.  
  
"Valar help us all." Ancalimë fumed inwardly as he stalked away.  
  
There was much for him to see to before his audience with the Peredhil: the stores of flour, grain and other dry goods must be inspected and accounted for, and this ruined batch of Lembas did not improve his worsening mood. If the ruined Waybread was any indication of the Woman's skill in the bakery, Ancalimë was not impressed.  
  
#  
  
"I should've gone with him." Jordan muttered, mentally kicking herself as she dressed.  
  
She was already having a bad day, and it just barely started. Another restless night was spent twisting and tangling the sheets as Jordan tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. This early morning, as she had the previous mornings since Legolas' departure, the Immortal woke up apprehensive, consumed with a sense of foreboding. Hoping a bath would soothe her, after disrobing, the Immortal slipped on the edge of the bathing pool and landed hard on her hip; thankfully she was alone when it happened, for the embarrassment of a witness to her lack of grace would be greater than the injury itself. Jordan gently probed the edges of the large bruise on her hip. The scrape on her elbow and forearm was already healed; the purplish- red bruise would disappear within an hour or so.  
  
"Do Immortals have mental meltdowns?" she wondered aloud.  
  
Plagued with the uneasy feeling that a dark cloud was poised over her head and all hell was about to break loose, Jordan turned her thoughts to her absent lover, hoping the mere thought of him would put her in a better frame of mind. Despite keeping busy at the House of Healing or doing Katas, Jordan was surprised to find she actually missed Legolas. More than she thought she would.  
  
In his absence, Gimli proved to be excellent company and her constant companion; Jordan spent most of her free time with the Dwarf exploring Rivendell. In the evenings, the Dwarf and the woman could often be found together sharing a meal as well as a philosophical discussion, such as what went better with Lembas - water or Miruvor, or with Warg - ale or beer? With Gimli at her side, Jordan was rarely bored. He entertained her tales of his and Legolas' travels with the others of a 'Fellowship'. The Dwarf was an excellent story teller, and despite the fact that their journey would be via horseback, the Immortal found herself actually looking forward to seeing this 'White City', as well as a place named 'Rohan' that their journey would take them through, for the Dwarf promised to show her the 'Glittering Caves', so named for its natural beauty. Jordan convinced herself the Dwarf's offhand mention of diamonds and other precious stones that were scattered about the caves like loose rocks had nothing to do with her desire to see it for herself. . . and maybe bring a few home - as a keepsake, of course.  
  
When Jordan was alone at night, it was then she thought the most of Legolas and counted the days that passed since he left, missing his touch . . . wondering if he was in the arms of someone else.  
  
"You don't own him." she lectured herself.  
  
** But we're lovers.doesn't that count for something? * * she wondered.  
  
* * Temporary lovers.* * the rational part of her mind reminded her.  
  
The Immortal decided to ignore that reality for a little longer. Shivering, Jordan threw another log on the fire. It was much colder at night and the mornings were becoming crisper as well. Pulling the brush through her wet hair, Jordan thought about Legolas. They had become lovers, but was she now expected - or obligated to share everything there was about her? The brush stilled as she considered all angles.  
  
"Kiss and tell? Definitely not. I don't have to tell him my whole life's story. Especially about my Immortality." Jordan decided.  
  
"He doesn't need to know. Besides, what good would it serve? Its not as if anyone's here for my head." she whispered.  
  
* * Hiding the truth may not be wise.* * the thought came out of nowhere.  
  
"Duncan, I wish you could help me." Jordan said aloud, wondering what the Highlander would do in her shoes.  
  
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I'll just do what I'm doing - not say anything at all. I can't be accused of lying or deceiving him." Jordan decided. Deep in her gut, the Immortal couldn't ignore the feeling that she may be making the wrong decision.  
  
"I'll live with it." she told herself as she pulled the brush thru her hair. Imagining Collette before her, Jordan could almost hear her friend's dulcet tones giving her own peculiar brand of advice. Never mind the fact Collette easily turned her passion on or off like a faucet. .  
  
: : : : "You've gotta learn to love them and leave them, Jor. Guys do it all the time, so why not us? And don't tell them everything about you - at least not so soon. It's the kiss of death in any relationship. Don't get too attached to one, 'cause there's too many men, too little time." Collette wantonly advised her friend when the Immortal expressed concern over her carefree ways. : : :  
  
Despite living in the frenzied pace of the 21st century, Jordan didn't share the cavalier, hedonistic approach Collette possessed towards lovers and relationships - or her outlook on romance. With a sigh, Jordan bound her hair in a low ponytail and took one last look at her room, satisfied she left no unnecessary work for Ceallach to see to before leaving her quarters. The Immortal decided a return to the kitchens for a healthy dose of busy work was what she needed to distract her from her conflicting thoughts and the choking anxiety that nipped at her heels.  
  
In the kitchens, Jordan found Pallanén in the bakery and once again offered her assistance. Quickly, the mid-Apprentice steered a bewildered Immortal in a different direction - towards what he informed her was the scullery, hastily explaining that the low-Apprentices needed all the help with the amount of dish washing that could be found. When they entered the enormous rooms, Jordan couldn't help but gawk at the towers of dirty plates and columns of pots and pans; her breath whistled out between her pursed lips as she watched the low-Apprentices go about their seemingly infinite task.  
  
"Careful what you wish for, Jordie." She muttered quietly.  
  
"Lady Jordan?" the Elf asked quizzically.  
  
"Nothing - I was just talking to myself." Shrugging, the Immortal rolled her sleeves and took her place at the sink beside an Apprentice.  
  
#  
Sensing the urgency within his Elf-friend, the horse neighed; in response, Legolas released the reins and leaned forward in the saddle over Arod's neck, gripping the horse's mane as he gave the horse his head. Tossing the bit in his mouth, Arod's powerful neck stretched out, his gait lengthened and hooves blurred as he swiftly bore his Elven master toward Imladris. Since leaving Mirkwood, they had ridden all the days and most of the nights, not stopping unless it was to water and give Arod a few hours' rest. Only after Arod assured his master the pace was not too great for him, did his Elf-friend allow them to continue their return journey.  
  
The Prince studied the slowly lightening sky as Arod raced over the terrain. Legolas wondered at the still visible stars; during the night, their brilliance was veiled, their celestial song muted. Change. It was all around. The season was beginning to turn, the chill in the air hinted at winter's coming. Soon the Elf, the Dwarf and the Woman would prepare for the journey to Gondor before the land was gripped in an icy embrace.  
  
* * What awaits us in the White City? * * Legolas wondered. He was in no hurry to learn the answer, for Jordan's meeting with Mithrandir could mark the end of his lover's presence in Middle-earth.  
  
Riding along, the Elf brooded, wondering what the future held. Elves weren't normally concerned with thoughts of the future; however, in mingling closely with mortals, Legolas began to think in finite terms. Elfkind and Mankind. Immortals and mortals - the merging of the two was impossibility in itself, the union destined to fail even before it began, for pairings between the two Races would eventually be sundered by Death. Mortals with their fragile lives were but a blink in time - a single drop of water in an endless sea. There was so much that Legolas had done and seen in his long life-things he longed to share with Jordan, to see thru her eyes; so much to see do and, yet so little time. Time. What was it to an Elf? It was nothing, yet Legolas found himself counting every hour, every passing moment they were apart.  
  
* * Soon, Melamin. * * Legolas thought to himself.  
  
The passion and complexity of human emotion never ceased to amaze Legolas, and Jordan was no different from those of her kind. Though their initial encounter was less than auspicious, at first, curiosity and a genuine desire to aid this Woman had drawn him to Jordan Waters. . . yet at the feast when he first taught her the Elvish dance, till the moment he left her bed but days ago, the feelings he harbored towards his lover only strengthened and grew, till Legolas could no longer deny Jordan Waters had captured more than his attention.  
  
"When did this happen?" Legolas murmured to himself.  
  
Jordan touched him in more ways than just physical. Her sometimes-mercurial mood swings, her peculiar ways -- Jordan Waters was everything he did not seek . . . mortal and flawed, yet in a short amount of time, somehow she had become everything he wanted.  
  
With their first physical union, Legolas knew he had lost a part of himself to her forever. The fact was made glaringly clear, for when he was at home in Mirkwood, in his beloved woods, the Elf discovered he could not bear the thought of being away from his lover any more than he could think of eternity having an end. It simply could not be. Although he thoroughly enjoyed their passionate and enthusiastic joining, it wasn't enough. To his vast surprise, and after great contemplation, Legolas was certain beyond doubt where his heart lay.  
  
* * What of you, Melamin? * * Legolas thought, wondering how Jordan  
truly feels towards him.  
  
Jordan shared her body willingly; however, her mind was another matter  
altogether. There was something about Jordan . . . something within her harboring both light and shadow that was different from the conflict common to the Mortals Legolas knew. Something the Elf had never before encountered. Legolas could not ignore the fact that there were aspects about her that raised questions, which whispered of unnatural abilities. Even now, as he did before in Trollshaw Forest, when Legolas questioned Jordan and attempted to probe deeper, she withdrew and changed the subject.  
  
* * What are you hiding, Melamin? * * Legolas wondered again.  
  
It intrigued him to no end; perhaps the fact that Jordan did not easily bend to his wishes, nor freely share her thoughts added to her already immense appeal. However, her continued reluctance in opening up her mind and heart made him wonder if what they had was only to be physical . . . on her part.  
  
"Nay. I shall have my answers. And we shall see where your heart lays, Melamin." Legolas said aloud. Arod snorted, his ears twitching back even as he raced on.  
  
"'Tis nothing, Mellon." Legolas assured his mount.  
  
The Elf came out of his reverie as they neared the borders of Imladris, feeling the ring of power emanating from Imladris strengthen; his mount felt it as well, for the rhythmic hoof beats quickened carrying horse and rider closer to their destination. With a burst of speed, Arod powered his way up the steep mountain paths and switchbacks, surefooted and swift. Arriving at the entrance of the main courtyard, Legolas spoke to his horse- friend. Obediently, Arod turned in the direction of the stables. Legs splayed and sides heaving, steam rose from the horse's sweaty flanks. Legolas dismounted as the stable hands swiftly moved to tend to the Prince's horse, removing the saddle and covering Arod's glistening hide with a large cloth.  
  
"My Lord, your packs will be delivered to your quarters." A servant dutifully informed the Wood Elf. Nodding his thanks, Legolas patted Arod's sweaty neck.  
  
"You have my eternal gratitude, my friend." The Prince murmured to his weary mount. Snorting, Arod nudged the Elf with his head and neighed.  
  
"Your effort was not in vain - I will go to her soon enough, Mellon." Legolas assured him. Grasping the reins, Legolas walked Arod around the stable grounds to cool him down.  
  
"First, I will tend to you." The Elf led the noble beast to a stall spread with fresh straw. Sweet hay, oats and a trough filled with fresh water awaited the horse. As a special treat, a bundle of tasty carrots were added to the horse's meal.  
  
Legolas groomed his equine friend and checked for hidden sores. After settling Arod in the stables, Legolas bid the tired horse rest well before he returned to his quarters to stow his weapons. The Mirkwood Elf wasn't surprised when a servant arrived with word from Lord Elrond that an audience could wait until the afternoon, grateful for the Lord's indulgence. Only after learning Jordan yet remained in Imladris was the Elf able to completely relax. Not bothering to change, Legolas went in search of the Dwarf, for when he was next at his lover's side, Legolas didn't plan to be interrupted. It had been but days since he'd seen Jordan -- seven to be exact, for Legolas had cut his visit home short and returned to Imladris sooner than expected, yet it felt much longer.  
  
#  
  
Gimli tossed another lump into the air as high as he could. Using the flat part of his small throwing axe's blade, the Dwarf knocked it away. It was a sport from Jordan's home that she had shown him; something called 'basesoft', 'ballbase' . . . or was it 'basesoftball'? The Dwarf shrugged; he couldn't remember which. Jordan attempted to explain the rules of this 'national past time' but it was lost to Gimli; all he cared about was seeing how far he could hit an object away. Squinting, the Dwarf followed the lump's flight path when, an arrow whizzed by - so close that Gimli felt the breeze stir the hair on his whiskered cheek before the projectile skewered the unlikely bird, cleaving the lump in two when it passed through it.  
  
"Henh?!"  
  
Recovering, Gimli scowled and embedded his axe in the nearby table before he quickly reached for more lumps, throwing them in the air as high as he could in different directions. Arrows pierced all, some exploding in a shower of crumbs. Gimli didn't turn around as he freed his throwing axe.  
  
"Not bad for an Elvish Princeling. You've returned early." The Dwarf grunted.  
  
"I had to, to ensure you remain out of trouble; besides, we both know you are lost without me, Spangaer (bearded one). " Legolas replied glibly, running his elegant hands lovingly over the carvings of his Galadrhim bow.  
  
"Who was lost in the Glittering Caves, eh?" Gimli retorted. The Elf just smiled, not rising to the bait.  
  
"Besides, I have good reason to." Legolas said.  
  
"And does that 'reason' know you are here?" Gimli asked with a knowing glance.  
  
"Nay, but she will. You're up early." Legolas replied. Soon the bright daystar would peek over the horizon.  
  
"There is much to prepare for our departure. Time should not be wasted in idleness." Gimli said.  
  
"And what exactly are you doing, Gimli?" Legolas asked, puzzled. Turning his attention to the basket filled with lumps, the Elf wondered what they were.  
  
"Err, err - well . . . " Gimli floundered for a suitable explanation as he squinted up at the Elf. Unable to come up with one, the Dwarf cleared his throat and pulled at his long, bushy beard as he followed the Elf's gaze. Quickly Gimli reached for one, examining it closely before taking a cautious bite.  
  
"Mani naa tanya (What is that)?" Legolas asked.  
  
"I was passing the kitchens this morn when the Apprentice was preparing to have these thrown out. 'Tis Lembas he said, but he must be mistaken, for I think these are but rocks in disguise. I near broke my teeth when I bit into one. Some you can actually bite into, but it will crumble into dust in your mouth. Others are perfect outside but raw inside. 'Tis fit for naught but Orcs." The Dwarf experimentally rapped the lump in his hand with his throwing axe before tossing it to the Elf.  
  
"Go ahead." The Dwarf urged. Legolas arched a dark brow and gingerly bit into it - or at least tried. It was impossible.  
  
"Try and break it in half."  
  
The Elf attempted to do as instructed. He couldn't; Gimli grunted for the Elf to hand it over. The Dwarf placed it on the ground.  
  
"Look, you." Gimli said as he took his double-headed battle-axe; the Dwarf hefted it overhead and gave a mighty downward swing. It bounced off the adamantine lump.  
  
"Do you feel faint? Has this . . . activity sapped your strength?" Legolas joked.  
  
"Pagh! I dinna think you can do better, Laddie!"  
  
"I can think of better things to do with my strength, Spangaer." The Elf retorted good-naturedly, thinking about a warm bed and a certain dark haired, green eyed maiden. He looked forward their . . . reunion. Gimli ignored the obvious meaning behind the Elf's words. He had more important matters to consider.  
  
"Mayhaps it can be used to repair the White City - mixed in with the mortar." The Dwarf mused.  
  
It may not be edible, but there were other possibilities to consider. But then again, the Dwarf didn't want to drag the five full baskets all the way to Gondor. Swinging his axe again, this time Gimli was able to cleave the lump in two.  
  
"Whoever made this should perhaps consider another trade." Legolas said. Beside him, Gimli nodded in agreement as he reached for another lump.  
  
Drawing his arm back, the Dwarf tossed it into the air. It had risen but two inches from his hand when Legolas shot it with an arrow; Gimli eyes widened as it exploded into yellow crumbs around him. Laughing aloud at the Dwarf's outraged expression; Legolas slung his bow across his shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
"That could've been my hand!" Gimli shouted.  
  
"I never miss a shot." The Elf tossed back arrogantly.  
  
Sputtering indignantly, the Elf-friend bent and gathered two handfuls of lumps and hurled them at the Elf. Before they could connect with the Prince's head, Legolas whipped out his knives and slashed at the air quicker than the Dwarf could follow. With a smirk, Legolas sheathed his blades and shook the crumbs from his golden hair.  
  
"Hrmmph!"  
  
"Come, Gimli, we will search for suitable victuals and a barrel of the finest ale Imladris has to offer to restore your strength." Gimli's ruffled ego softened at the mention of two of his most favorite things. Glad to have his friend back, Gimli forgave the Elf his little prank; Legolas' preternatural skill with the bow was unrivaled, but the Elf would never hear those words from him.  
  
In the common dining hall, the friends shared food and drink as Legolas told Gimli of the Binding Ceremony and the changes in the palace halls. The Dwarf stoically listened to the Elf's tale in silence, answering with an occasional grunt. The history between their families still rankled the Dwarf, but Gimli found he could now listen to Legolas speak about his home and sire without flying into a hot rage. Forgiveness had to begin somewhere.  
  
Despite his gruff exterior and coarse ways, the Dwarf was a romantic at heart, and the tender feelings he nurtured towards the Lady of Light often carried him through many dangers, and cheered him during the lonely nights, knowing a creature of immense beauty was alive and well. Gimli belched and pushed away from the table.  
  
"Be off with you, Laddie. I must draft another correspondence to King Elessar and you've occupied enough of my valuable time." Gimli said. He clasped the Elf's shoulder affectionately.  
  
"'Tis good to see your pointy ears again. I believe there's a Lady who would also be glad to see them as well." He added slyly, chuckling to himself as he walked away, not giving the Elf a chance to reply.  
  
Legolas smiled and rose from the table as well. Spying Ceallach in the hall, he motioned for her to come. The she-Elf bowed respectfully, listening quietly as the Prince murmured his request. The maiden nodded and assured the Prince she would see to the task. The Mirkwood Elf grinned to himself as he made his way to his quarters to bathe and change. Legolas hoped the Lady would be willing to see more than his ears.  
  
#  
  
Standing in the middle of Jordan's quarters, Legolas frowned; she was not there. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the room was filled with the familiar scent of his lover and her favorite soap. It washed over him, soothing and stimulating at the same time. Lifting the dome to the tray on the table, he saw the servant had done as he requested. There was more than enough food to see them through until the next morning. Legolas chuckled softly, remembering the look on Ceallach's face when she first discovered him in Jordan's quarters.  
  
The Elf grinned with approval at the large flagon of Miruvor; Jordan would need its strength imparting property. The Mirkwood Prince planned to show his lover just how much he missed her. Crossing to the bed, Legolas laid a hand on it; he felt the faint residual warmth and smiled. Jordan could not have been gone long. Eager to see her, the Elf left the room and headed where he knew she would be . . .  
  
#  
  
Hands loosely clasped behind his back, Lord Elrond stood by an open window in his library, listening quietly to his head Baker's report; confident the Elf before him was capable of handling the many details required to keep Imladris' resident and guests properly fed during the coming winter, Imladris' ruler inquired after his guest's well being. Ancalimë quickly informed the Ruler that the woman's presence in the kitchens was not under duress, but at the Lady's insistence. Elrond's sharp brow raised in bemusement as he wondered at Jordan's continued attempts to repay his hospitality.  
  
* * Such peculiar ways. * * Elrond thought to himself.  
  
"My Lord, shall I remove her from the kitchens?" Ancalimë asked.  
  
"See to it she is not over taxed; I do not believe Lord Legolas will be pleased to discover her . . . laboring in such a manner. That is all." The Ruler instructed.  
  
Ancalimë inclined his head in acknowledgement before turning to leave. He had just the task in mind for her; it would both keep her occupied and well out of the kitchens. . .  
  
#  
  
Pallanén was overseeing the mixing of another batch of Lembas when Ancalimë appeared; judging from his face, the head Baker was not pleased.  
  
"What is the matter, Master?" Pallanén inquired.  
  
"Weevils have ruined much flour; the barrels must be thoroughly cleansed and retreated. Where is Lady Jordan?"  
  
"She is in the scullery, Master." Pallanén answered quickly.  
  
"Very well." The Elf said curtly as he turned on his heel. Pallanén returned his attention to the Lembas. He couldn't risk this batch going awry as well.  
  
Ancalimë found Jordan in the lower kitchens. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, the Immortal's hands were buried in a tub of hot, sudsy water. Wearing a suede tunic and leggings, her dampened hair clung to her flushed face; long tendrils of black hair escaped her low ponytail as the steam from the hot water rose up. Stacked nearby were towers of platters and other dishes that she'd washed. A low-Apprentice was busy at the woman's side, drying and sorting the items she placed in the draining racks.  
  
"Too bad they don't have rubber gloves here." Jordan muttered into the steam for the umpteenth time.  
  
Her hands felt raw, and her fingertips were wrinkled like raisins. Doing dishes all day was not what she had in mind, yet Jordan washed on, determined to not show any sign of weariness - even as the Apprentices came bearing more dishes to wash. Despite the endless activity, instead of pushing the ominous feelings to the back of her mind, the monotonous task only gave Jordan more time to ponder what exactly was alarming her.  
  
** Pull yourself together, Jordie. ** she sternly told herself, wondering if she was on the verge of a panic attack.  
  
"Lady Jordan." Between the rattling of the dishes, and her thoughts, she didn't hear the Elf.  
  
"Lady Jordan!" she looked up sharply in surprise.  
  
The serving platter she was about to rinse slipped from her fingers and into the sudsy water. It landed with a big splash, sloshing water onto the front of her tunic. The dark brown material turned black as the water soaked through. Jordan mopped the perspiration and beads of water from her brow with a damp portion of her sleeve.  
  
"Hi." Jordan replied uncertainly.  
  
"You -- " the Baker said, addressing the low-Apprentice behind her.  
  
"Finish this. Lady Jordan, if you'd be so kind as to accompany me, if it is agreeable with you, I have a task I ask you to perform." Judging from the way the Apprentice quickly did as bidden, the Immortal knew the Elf addressing her was in some position of authority in the kitchens.  
  
* * When in Rome . . . ** she thought wryly to herself.  
  
"Sure." Jordan replied. Drying her hands, and wringing out her sodden tunic as best she could, Jordan smiled at the Apprentice on her way out and followed the cook. She quickly lost her sense of direction in the many turns and stairways that made up the kitchens.  
  
"Where are we going?" Jordan asked.  
  
"To the store room. Five flour barrels must be cleaned before they can be retreated. It appears weevils have found their way inside and ruined the flour. By the grace of the Valar, only a few were contaminated."  
  
They stopped before a massive door reinforced by band of decoratively wrought iron; at Ancalimë's touch, the doors swung open. Jordan followed the Elf inside and looked around the vast storeroom. Inside were large - no, make it huge oak barrels (that reached her chest) that must have numbered in the hundreds. Five were pulled to the fore.  
  
"Please remove the spoiled flour. After you have finished what you can, kindly inform the Apprentice, and she or he will see to the treatment." Ancalimë said.  
  
Jordan was unsure how to proceed, for it wasn't exactly a task she commonly performed. Still, how bad could it be? The Baker kept his smile to himself as he watched the dismay flit across her face. The task would surely keep her occupied for some time. At least long enough to ensure his Apprentices could carry out their duties without her disastrous assistance.  
  
"Is it beyond your ability?" the Baker inquired.  
  
"No." Jordan said slowly. Mustering her enthusiasm - after all, the Elves were feeding her - the Immortal forced a polite smile to her face.  
  
"No. I can do it."  
  
"Very well, I shall leave you to your task." With that, Ancalimë left.  
  
Jordan sat down on a small, narrow crate, and faced the barrels, wondering how best to accomplish her task. Beside the crate was a box filled with assorted tools. Jordan scuffed at it with her toe. Rising to the challenge, Jordan moved the crate closer, pried off the lid and peered inside; she smiled as a plan began to form in her mind.  
  
"Work smarter not harder, Jordie." She told herself.  
  
Hopping off, the Immortal went in search of the Apprentices.  
  
#  
  
"Hah!" Jordan thought smugly to herself, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment.  
  
Working closely, and with a little ingenuity, together, Jordan and the Elves dumped the infested flour into a wheeled cart to be transported away. Jordan marveled at the Elves' physical strength. If she hadn't witnessed how easily the Elves toted the heavy cart up and down the stairs, she wouldn't have believed it possible. Now all that remained to be done was the removal of the hard crust that coated the bottom of the barrels.  
  
It was tricky laying the barrels down without them rolling around as she crawled in and worked, but Jordan managed and dislodged the crust in short order. With determination and proper body mechanics, Jordan set the barrels upright and inspected them once more. The Immortal was about to consider her task complete when she noticed an inch of crusty flour on the bottom of the fifth barrel.  
  
"Now how'd I miss that?" she wondered.  
  
Despite her better judgment, Jordan decided she didn't want to lay the heavy barrel on its side again until after she loosed the crust. Instead, she scooted the crate to the barrel and stepped onto it. Bent at the waist, Jordan was buried head and shoulders within as she precariously balanced on one tiptoe. She used her other leg as a counterbalance while straining to dislodge the hardened flour at the very corner.  
  
"Stubborn flour barnacles." she muttered.  
  
"Ah - Ah -- AH-CHOO!"  
  
The pulverized flour Jordan loosened rose in a cloud, filling her mouth and nose; unfortunately, the enclosed space magnified her rather loud sneeze and set her ears ringing. Jordan went limp, momentarily stunned and disoriented. The edge of the barrel cutting into her waist didn't help matters, either. With one hand braced against the side so she didn't fall into the barrel, Jordan scratched her itchy nose on her sleeve and sniffed before resuming her task, determinedly chipping away.  
  
* * Damned good thing I'm not asthmatic. Or claustrophobic. * * She thought to herself; Jordan didn't know what was worse: peeling potatoes or working in a cloud of flour - make that weevil-filled flour.  
  
"Just . . . a little more . . ." she grunted. This barrel's 'growth' proved to be particularly stubborn. But she was tougher.  
  
Jordan was so engrossed in her task that she didn't feel the touch on her leg. She did feel when the hand slid up her calf, to her thigh, and up to her buttocks under her tunic. Startled, the Immortal came out of the barrel quickly, wincing when she hit her head hard on the edge. It would've been an impressive display of reflex if Jordan hadn't forgotten she was standing on a narrow crate.  
  
"Whhooa. . . !" Even as she fell backwards, Jordan intended to send a message to her assailant; her arm slashed through the air stabbing wildly as she fell. Both her fall and her arm were stopped before they could land.  
  
"I am unarmed!" The Elf said quickly.  
  
He was in no danger, for his reflexes were quicker than hers. Catching the woman in his arm, his free hand stayed her wrist with his other hand before Jordan could bury her tool in his neck. He eyed the sharp tool with an amused expression on his face. Blinking in surprise, Jordan thought for a second the Elf who held her inches above the floor looked exactly like her lover. . .  
  
: : : : Taking to the treetops, the Mirkwood Elf swiftly made his way towards Jordan's glade. Though the trees whispered Jordan hadn't been there yet, the Elf waited, confident she'd arrive soon. When it became apparent she wasn't going to show, Legolas headed towards the House of Healing. He didn't find her there, either. Watching the Prince search the house for his lover amused the Healer. Læurenthail took pity on the Prince and casually suggested he stop by the kitchens. After thanking the Healer, the Wood Elf did as suggested.  
  
Upon arrival, he did not find Jordan among the vegetables that were being prepared for the noon meal. An Apprentice informed the Prince that the woman had been there, but had since left, and was last seen heading towards the bakery. Thanking him, the Mirkwood Elf did not see his lover in the bakery, either; he asked another Apprentice, who informed the Wood Elf the Lady Jordan was in the scullery.  
  
* * You are leading me on a merry chase, Melamin. * * Legolas thought  
to himself, bemused.  
  
Pursued and admired for his beauty by both Elf and Mankind, Legolas  
could have anyone he wanted to satisfy his physical needs, and choose he did over the centuries; however, this was certainly another unfamiliar feeling and unique situation for the Elf. Legolas never before had to pursue a maiden. . . and certainly not thru the kitchens.  
  
Thankfully, Pallanén was passing thru the bakery when he saw the Prince and directed him to the lower storeroom. Standing in the doorway, if it wasn't for the fact he was intimately acquainted with every curve and line of her body, Legolas wouldn't have recognized his lover buried halfway in the barrel. : : : :  
  
"Legolas?! You're back!" the Prince released his hold on Jordan's wrist and removed the pick from her hand. Jordan was about to throw her arms around his neck when she hesitated, not wanting to dirty him or his clothes. Legolas solved her dilemma by kissing her thoroughly before he nuzzled her neck, making her laugh.  
  
"Did you miss me?" Legolas teasingly asked, looking her over with a smile on his beautiful face.  
  
The Elf raised a brow at her appearance. Jordan's black hair and face was coated with a dusting of yellow-white flour. The slightly damp front of her tunic was crusty with it as well. As far as the Elf was concerned, all was well in Middle Earth. His dear friend, Gimli, was safe with him in Imladris, Elessar had risen above the failures of his forebears, fulfilled his destiny as the rightful King of Gondor and wed his heart's desire, the Evenstar. As for Legolas, the woman he desired was in his arms once more, though not in the way he quite imagined.  
  
"What would you say if I said 'no'?" Jordan asked before kissing his cheek.  
  
"That you lie." Legolas replied, hoping for this very reception -- minus a pick in the neck, of course.  
  
"Prove it." she challenged.  
  
"I will." The Elf promised suggestively against her cheek before setting his lover on her feet. Legolas put his fists on his hips, cocked his head and studied the woman before him.  
  
"After you've had a bath." He added with a grin.  
  
"I'm almost done." Jordan said.  
  
Needless to say, Jordan didn't make the Elf wait too long, especially since her lover made short work of the task that remained. The Apprentices paused in their duties as the Mirkwood Elf and the Woman passed by. Lady Jordan's flour coated face was clear in some areas (specifically around the lips and neck), while the Prince's face was smudged with it in the corresponding areas. Smiling, the Elves returned to their work.  
  
A/N: Thank you to Raq/SerenaD for their help re: Beta'ing, and BelasVoice for all your encouragement! =D  
  
I'd also like to thank Alanna & Orphelia Rose for reviewing (I was unable to respond to you two personally). Alanna, don't worry - I feel the exact same way! 


	25. Many Meetings

Disclaimer: The character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon is on loan w/o permission from Gerald Lamb. Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, nor am I profiting from this story. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated, as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.  
  
Many Meetings  
  
Even in daylight, Methos managed to keep to the shadows as he walked ahead of his companions through the forest. The conversation between the Highlander and the younger Immortal's Watcher seemed loud in the quiet forest, yet the Eldest was only half-listening, for he was still mulling over his own earlier conversation with Gregory. . .  
  
:::: "Have you ever wished that certain. . . 'events' never happened?" the Ancient One asked. A thousand regrets shuffled through the Immortal's mind in a sorrowful parade.  
  
"Who hasn't? We've all wished that before." Gregory replied wryly, watching his old friend with a sad expression on his weathered face.  
  
"But . . . have you ever wanted to travel back in time to undo a wrong? Have you ever tried?" Methos ventured.  
  
The older gentleman didn't need his ears to hear the regret in the Immortal's quiet voice. Gregory's snowy brow rose, his gaze at once sharp yet kind.  
  
"Rarely does anything happen by chance, Thanatos."  
  
"The name's 'Methos'. I am not that person . . . anymore. I've changed." The reformed Immortal said quietly. The Greek word was a constant, shameful reminder of his past dastardly deeds and who he had once been.  
  
"Thanatos . . . Adam . . . Methos. Everything happens for a reason. Your brain may not know why; in fact, it may never figure it out. Nevertheless, your heart knows. Your heart will always know."::::  
  
* * Maybe, Gregory . . . maybe, * * the Immortal thought to himself  
before his thoughts were interrupted.  
  
"What the hell's up with this weather?" Joe asked, squinting up at the grey sky.  
  
Though the sky had lightened, the sun had not burned through the gray fog obscuring the path before them. It shrouded the surrounding area. In fact, it seemed to follow them. They had not heard the chirping of birds or the chatter of squirrels for some time now and the visibility was limited to thirty feet.  
  
"How much farther to this damn place?" Joe called, uneasy. The Watcher's question brought Methos back to the present.  
  
** Good question, Joe, ** Methos thought, wondering the exact same thing. If the information the Halcyon gave him was correct, they still had at least a mile to go.  
  
* * 'Cut through the woods till you get to the great East Road.' You forgot to mention we would need transportation - or better yet, a compass, Caine. I should have seen that one coming, ** the Ancient One thought, annoyed. Stopping in his tracks, the Old Man turned.  
  
"Not much further Joe, we're almost there." Methos answered as he waited for his companions to catch up with him. Sheltered under the branches, the leaves and weak sunlight eerily stippled the elder Immortal in shadow.  
  
"You know, I really don't want to see this village that badly. The beer can't be that good ---let's go back." Joe suggested; the Watcher's prosthetics were starting to chafe and irritate his leg's stumps.  
  
"No!" Methos said quickly - perhaps too quickly, judging from the odd looks that Duncan and Joe gave him. Methos gave them a lopsided grin and tempered his voice to a more reasonable tone.  
  
"We're almost there Joe. To come all this way just to turn back now - come on! Where's your sense of adventure?" the Ancient One said cajolingly.  
  
"With my heart in San Francisco." the Watcher sniped.  
  
"Joe's right Methos," Duncan said with a pointed look at their friend.  
  
"You okay Joe?" The Highlander asked.  
  
"I'm fine." The Watcher snapped. Despite the cool weather and their leisurely pace, Joe was leaning heavily on his cane. There was a light sheen of perspiration on his brow and his whiskered face was flushed.  
  
"Nothing like a little alcohol to kill the bugs," Methos encouraged the tired Watcher. They could not stop just yet and the Ancient One knew they had to reach the village soon.  
  
"We can do this another day, Methos."  
  
"No, we can't, MacLeod." the Ancient One replied. The Highlander turned towards his friend with an impatient look.  
  
"What do you mean? Of course we can." Duncan said; he had not planned to take a walk this deep into the forest either, and was thankful that though his loafers were not exactly made for hiking, they were at least very comfortable.  
  
"This pub won't be here for long," the Eldest warned.  
  
"Then we can catch another Festival in the States. If a Renaissance pub's brew is so important, we'll go back and get my car." The Highlander's firm tone indicated his decision as final. Methos had to think quickly, although fortunately it was the Watcher that provided a timely distraction.  
  
"What time is it, anyway?" Joe asked. Methos' gaze swung towards the Watcher. The brief respite had given the mortal his second wind, but his face was still slightly flushed.  
  
Looking up, the Watcher searched for the sun. Though he couldn't see it, its light shone through but its warmth couldn't penetrate the fog. Despite his wool blazer and the unaccustomed exercise, the Watcher felt chilled to the bone. Duncan glanced at his watch. He frowned and tapped it. Taking it off, the Highlander shook it and held it to his ear.  
  
"Damned Rolex isn't worth the $10,000 I paid for it." the Highlander complained.  
  
"Shoulda stuck with a Timex, Mac. Mine's taken lots o' lickins' but keeps on tickin'. Sometimes the cheap stuff's better than the expensive crap." Joe said.  
  
"Well, it stopped at 10:59." Duncan replied, still trying to figure out what had happened to his costly timepiece.  
  
"We've been out here that long?" Joe asked, incredulous. When they arrived at Gregory's shoppe, it was during the early morning.  
  
"Are you sure it was working right?" the Watcher asked Duncan.  
  
"I just bought it . . .yesterday." the Highlander replied, perplexed.  
  
"Don't worry about the time, MacLeod. We've got more pressing matters to see to." Methos said. Duncan looked up at the sudden neighing of horses. The damp weather had muffled the sound of their hooves.  
  
"Friends of yours?" Duncan asked as he sized up the arrivals.  
  
"Hardly," was Methos' acerbic reply.  
  
Two men on horseback were before them. Behind them, Joe heard the rustle of branches being pushed aside and leaves crunching underfoot. Turning, he watched as three more men appeared from the trees, moving towards them in a flanking pattern.  
  
"They don't look very friendly." Joe observed.  
  
"That's an astute observation if ever I heard one, Joe." Methos commented dryly.  
  
"Is this part of the Festival?" the Watcher asked when the men drew their swords and short daggers. The staged show looked quite real.  
  
"Authenticity is one of the things they really try for." Methos commented.  
  
"Well, well. Wha 'ave we 'ere?" the leader drawled to his mounted friend as he gazed at the trio.  
  
"Looks like dead men to me." his companion replied.  
  
"Funny, I don't feel dead. Do you feel dead?" Methos asked the Highlander. Duncan shot the Eldest an irritated look.  
  
"Look, guys - we don't want any trouble, okay?" the Highlander said sternly. He was not in the mood to play along with the 'Highway Robbery' scenario.  
  
"Hear that? Brave words for a dead man." the Leader sneered. His companions nodded, their gleeful expressions were a bit too genuine for the Watcher's comfort.  
  
"We don't have time for this." The Highlander said, impatient to be on their way.  
  
"Too good for the likes of us, eh?" the ruffian to the left of the Scotsman retorted, tossing his dagger back and forth between his hands in an effort meant to intimidate - it did not work.  
  
From atop his pale horse, the Leader assessed their prey. The slightly leaner one did not look to be a threat, nor did the old man leaning on his walking stick. The dark, swarthier man however could be a problem. He would need to be dealt with first; the others could wait. With a look, the man on horseback signaled his cohorts to attack; the second mounted thug dismounted from his horse to help his companions. The Immortals exchanged glances, keeping the Watcher between them in a protective circle.  
  
"I'm all for historical accuracy, but this is going overboard. The Festival Coordinator is going to hear about this." The Highlander warned the advancing men.  
  
Ignoring the Clansman's words, the men advanced, confident the trio was outnumbered. Thug number One rushed the Highlander. Duncan lightly sidestepped his advance and pushed his attacker, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Spurred by his companions' derisive laughter, the hooligan sprang to his feet and rushed the Highlander again. This time, ruffian number Two joined him. Again, the Clansman dodged their attacks and sent the men to the dirt, followed by number Three.  
  
"Curse you, stand still!" bellowed thug Two.  
  
The remaining two offenders who were advancing on Joe and the Ancient One hooted with derisive laughter at their fellow companions' troubles, for the Highlander proved to be more of a challenge than they initially thought. They digressed to help their companions subdue the troublesome Scot.  
  
"Feel free to join me, Methos!" the Highlander said sarcastically as he glared at his companion. He now was surrounded by four baddies. Unfortunately, the Old Man declined the Scotsman's invitation.  
  
"Thanks, I'll wait a bit if you don't mind." Methos answered.  
  
"Don't you think you should help him Methos?" Joe asked, not liking the odds. One, then two of the men went sprawling in the dirt. They got up for another try at the Highlander.  
  
"Why? MacLeod can take care of himself – this will be a cakewalk for him, Joe. He's doing fine - oh...I take it back." Methos winced as one of the attackers managed to plant his shoulder in the Highlander's lower back when he was otherwise engaged. The Immortal and Watcher heard the Highlander's grunt of pain before he shook his attackers off.  
  
"You know, you really can be a pain in the ass sometimes Adam." Joe said with an irritated look on his face.  
  
"Part of my charm, Joe," Methos smirked.  
  
"Anytime you'd like to join me Methos!" the Highlander yelled as he wrenched a dagger away from one of his attackers and dodged the others trying to tackle him.  
  
"Four against one?" the Watcher asked, watching his charge. Duncan's hair was disheveled and his clothes mussed, but otherwise was okay.  
  
"I am helping, Joe." the Ancient One said calmly. He was watching the Highlander fight empty-handed, picking up a couple of moves and footwork he had not come across.  
  
"Really? Could've fooled me," Joe said.  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm protecting *you*." Methos said, tucking his hands into his overcoat pockets. As if on cue, two of the men broke off from the fray and rushed the Immortal and Watcher, thinking them easier targets.  
  
"Get your back to the tree, Joe," the Immortal instructed as he placed himself between the Watcher and their attackers, who had their daggers drawn.  
  
Methos reached into his overcoat and drew his single-handed broadsword. In his eyes was a cold, steely glint. Their attackers hesitated for a second before pressing onward as the Immortal stepped in front of Joe. Behind him, the Watcher moved well away to avoid the Ivanhoe's long reach as Methos swung it around.  
  
After a brief clash of blades, the Immortal brought the wide, hazelnut shaped pommel of his Ivanhoe crashing down on his opponent's skull. The sickening crack of bone splintering filled the air. The second ruffian followed his fallen cohort on the packed dirt as Methos firmly gripped the hilt of his sword, and used its substantial heft to deliver a nose breaking punch. There was no grace, no honor in the struggle. The bottom line was survival, pure and simple, and it was what Methos did best.  
  
Rolling in the dirt with blood streaming from his nose, the ruffian moaned with pain. Holding his sword overhead, for just an instant, the Immortal felt the surge of the familiar violence well up. It would be so easy to revert to his old form and kill him, a tiny voice in his mind urged. Taking advantage of the Immortal's hesitation, the scoundrel scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, heading for the trees. Every instinct compelled the Horseman to go after the fleeing attacker and make sure he was not a . . . 'problem' anymore. Instead, with his foot, Methos nudged the unconscious man sprawled at his feet.  
  
"There, see? MacLeod can handle the rest. Besides. . . I might kill them." Methos said calmly. Joe looked sharply at the Ancient One. He did not say a word, for the look on his face said it all.  
  
"What?" Methos asked irritably.  
  
"A little overkill, don't ya think?" Joe asked.  
  
"Looked real enough to me. When someone comes swinging a sword or weapon at me, I prefer to be the one who is still standing. By whatever means necessary," Methos said. The Watcher's disapproving look made the Immortal grit his teeth.  
  
* * That's the trouble with consciences: they made you feel guilt when  
you didn't want to,* * Methos fumed to himself.  
  
With a long-suffering sigh, the Immortal drove the tip of his sword into the ground and hunkered down on his haunches. He put two fingers to the man's neck, feeling the carotid pulse. It was weak but steady.  
  
"Don't worry Joe." Methos assured his friend as he rose to his feet. The Immortal nodded towards the two men flanking the Highlander. The Ancient One nudged the limp form again with his foot.  
  
"They do this kind of thing for a living. This bastard will have one helluva headache when he wakes up." Methos said.  
  
* * . . . And migraines for life. If he lives.* * The Immortal  
thought to himself.  
  
"Well, I don't think these stunt guys count getting hurt as just part  
of a day's work. I hope the underwriter of their insurance company  
does not cancel their policies 'cause of you." Joe said.  
  
* * Somehow I do not think they will.* * The Ancient One thought.  
  
"Now's a good time, Methos!" Duncan yelled out. Methos spared the Highlander a glance, but did not move to help.  
  
"Hurry it up, MacLeod - we need to get going." He yelled back.  
  
Well aware of his attackers' positions, Duncan concentrated on the one before him. He grabbed the thug's arm and twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger before bringing his fists down on the back of his head. The thug collapsed to ground without a sound, knocked out cold. Behind him scoundrel Number Four rushed the Highlander, grabbing him from behind and rendering him immobile. Duncan allowed the thug to continue thinking he had the upper hand as he assessed the situation. Seeing the fight was not going well - with two of his men down and one run off, with a growl of frustration, the Leader of the pack dismounted, drew his sword, and stalked towards the Highlander.  
  
It was time for the Immortal to make his move. The speed and ease with which Duncan turned out of the scoundrel's grab position surprised his attacker. The thug did not have time to counter the Immortal's unexpected move, for the Highlander applied a hard elbow strike to his attacker's jaw -- the move resulting in an instant knock out. The Scot turned to meet the new threat. Eyeing the ruffian's blade, the Highlander's own blade appeared in his hand as if by magic. Duncan fanned it until it sang, and rested it against his shoulder, his left hand held out.  
  
"You prance about as a woman!" the Leader sneered, hoping to cloud the Highlander's mind with his insult.  
  
"Wanna dance?" Duncan invited sarcastically.  
  
With the sinuous grace of a snake, Duncan assumed a fighting stance. As the combatants circled each other warily, Methos scanned the trees, making sure no surprises came out of the woodwork. Satisfied, the Immortal tucked his Ivanhoe back into his overcoat.  
  
"Hey, where you going'?" Joe shouted after him as Methos jogged away.  
  
"To get our ride." the Ancient One called over his shoulder.  
  
"Oh, yeah . . . c'mon, baby. Shhhh, easy now . . . don't be afraid." The Ancient One murmured softly.  
  
Speaking in low tones, Methos slowly walked towards the horses. They neighed sharply, nostrils flaring, as they smelled the unfamiliar scent of the Immortal. Sensing the darkness within the Ancient One, the skittish beasts backed away Though the whites of their eyes were visible, to the Ancient One's relief, the horses didn't bolt. Inwardly, Methos sighed. No matter how much he would like to convince himself he had changed, the animals apparently knew better. Methos slowly reached out and caught hold of the reins. They were magnificent specimens of horseflesh: the dappled gray horse stood seventeen hands high at the withers, while the smoky black measured at least eighteen hands.  
  
"Ah, two for two, Joe!" the Ancient One called out as he led them back to the Watcher. Methos suddenly stopped. Slowly, he shifted the reins to one hand.  
  
"Methos?" Joe called to his friend, wondering why the Immortal stopped.  
  
Methos wore a peculiar expression on his face transforming his visage into someone he almost did not recognize. The tiny, humorless smile on his lips and the cold look in Methos' eyes was something he had seen only in the eyes of hardened Vets and criminals whose lives had passed beyond redemption. It was easy to see why the Immortal before him once was called 'Death', the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?!" Joe shouted, alarmed.  
  
The Immortal's Glock appeared in his right hand, and pointed at the Watcher's head. Even if he were to hit the ground, the Watcher saw first hand Methos' skill with firearms. Awarded a medal for marksmanship during his tour in Vietnam, Joe did not need combat experience to know the Immortal was not going to miss. The Watcher stared at his friend and colleague in horrified fascination as he pulled the trigger. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment of impact.  
  
Instead, the scream of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground hard reached his ears. Turning, the Watcher saw the thug whose nose Methos had broken on his back clutching his shoulder; blood streamed from between his fingers. Beside him lay a dagger.  
  
"Protecting you, Joe," Methos calmly replied as the gun disappeared in the folds of his overcoat.  
  
"Son-of-a-bitch!" the Watcher exclaimed, outraged. This was getting out of hand! If he did not know any better, Joe really thought the man planned to stab him - and in the back, no less! Even if all this was play- acting, Joe was a little shaken.  
  
"Since when do they allow this kind of stunt?" Joe asked. Methos just shrugged. "Wait - aren't the police going to want to question you?" the Watcher asked.  
  
"I don't think so, he'll be fine. The round went through his shoulder." Methos countered.  
  
"How do you know?" the Watcher persisted.  
  
"Trust me Joe. Would I lie to you?" the Immortal asked.  
  
"Have you done anything else but?" Joe asked.  
  
* * Only when I had to,* * Methos thought to himself.  
  
"I could ask you the same thing, now, couldn't I?" the Ancient One returned without missing a beat "Are you forgetting I was a doctor at one point in time?" Methos asked impatiently.  
  
"Oh. Yeah," Joe conceded.  
  
"The human body doesn't change much, you know. Like I told you, I hit soft tissue, not bone or any vital organs." The Ancient One replied.  
  
"Well, are you sure the cops aren't going to come after us - you?" the Watcher asked, worriedly.  
  
"No, they won't." The Immortal answered patiently. "Besides, what's there to tell? You were threatened and I acted accordingly. End of story - Que peche?"  
  
"Sure. Fine. Whatever." Joe knew he was not going to get a straight answer from the Immortal.  
  
The Old Man's boyish grin was completely at odds with his demeanor but seconds later he handed a shaken but grateful Joe the reins. Methos studied the unusual looking tack and quickly checked the horses' girths, ensuring that the saddles were secure. The Ancient One tossed a sword scabbard to the ground. He had another use in mind for the holster. While Methos checked the horses over, Joe watched the Highlander's progress. The Leader proved to be a man of some skill with the blade, but he was no match for the Highlander. The ease with which Duncan unarmed his opponent was almost unfair - for in a matter of seconds, the Leader lay sprawled in the dirt, unconscious. Dusting himself off, the Highlander turned to his companions. One of the minions was struggling to his feet.  
  
"Stay down!" the Highlander ordered, his Katana held to the thug's throat. With a slight twist of his wrist, Duncan made a point with the razor sharp tip of his sword. Obediently, the thug glared at the Immortal as he lay back down, submitting.  
  
"Took you long enough, MacLeod," Methos said.  
  
"No thanks to you!" he shot back.  
  
"Come on, we need to get going." Methos continued smoothly.  
  
"Stealing horses, Methos?"  
  
"Borrowing." the Eldest clarified. "Don't look gift horses in the mouth." the Antediluvian One said with a pointed look at the Watcher.  
  
"Hey Mac - this sure beats walking until we can catch a cab back. I've had enough excitement for one day." Joe said. All he wanted to do was get back to his bar.  
  
* * Its just beginning, Joe,* * Methos thought to himself, amused.  
  
"Let's just get the hell to this pub and back home," the Watcher suggested, handing the reins to the Ancient One.  
  
"I couldn't have said it better myself," Methos commented as he secured the smoky black stallion's reins to his saddle.  
  
"C'mon, Joe, give me your cane." the Immortal instructed. The Highlander went back to the bandits and was busy throwing their weapons deep into the mist-cloaked trees. Searching for their weapons would keep them occupied. At least long enough for the Immortals and Watcher to make their getaway.  
  
Methos slid the Watcher's cane into the holster previous occupied by the Leader's sword, taking care it would not slip from the straps. Swinging onto the horse's back with ease, Methos placed his feet firmly into the stirrups.  
  
"These horses are huge!" the Watcher said.  
  
"You've got a gift for stating the obvious, Joe." Methos said good- naturedly.  
  
"Yeah, well just remember who's not quick on their feet here, all right?" Joe retorted.  
  
"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." Methos said, ignoring the Watcher's splenetic expression as he leaned down.  
  
"Grab my arm, Joe. Upsy daisy." the Ancient One said.  
  
With the Highlander's help, the Immortals settled the Watcher behind the Eldest. Duncan adjusted the angle of Joe prosthetics before taking the reins of the dark stallion from Methos. Swinging the gray's head east, Methos urged his mount forward, leaving the Highlander no choice but to follow.  
  
"How'd you know we were going to be attacked?" Duncan asked as they rode along.  
  
"I didn't. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure that out when you are outnumbered. Things don't normally go well for those on the receiving end of the bullying stick." The Eldest said. Duncan was unusually quiet as the trio rode along. It was usually an indication the Highlander was thinking.  
  
"Now, isn't horseback much better than leather express?" Methos asked breezily in an attempt to distract the Highlander. It was dangerous when MacLeod started thinking.  
  
"Are we there yet?" Joe asked. Behind the Ancient one, Joe felt every sway and motion of the horse's movement.  
  
"Makes me glad we can't have kids." Methos commented, relieved for the timely distraction. Despite himself, Duncan smiled.  
  
"I thought you enjoyed my company Joe." Methos said, affecting a hurt tone.  
  
"Even for you, my patience is really getting thin, Old Man." Joe said smartly.  
  
"Fine thanks after I save your ass. Mind the branch." Methos replied as he ducked, smiling at Joe's colorful cursing. The Watcher got a face full of branches.  
  
"We're here," the Ancient One announced suddenly, looking around. "Well, almost." Methos amended.  
  
"Where?" Joe asked, bewildered. They were still in the forest, with nothing but trees to the side, trees behind and more trees in front. The trees were everywhere.  
  
"Where we should be," the Ancient one answered with a grin.  
  
* * You will know it when you see it.* * The Ancient one remembered Caine's words.  
  
The horses stepped onto a wide road. In the distance, they could see a settlement, most likely the village of which Gregory spoke. As they drew nearer, the trio could see the village guarded from outsiders by a deep ditch and a hedge. The great East Road passed through this hedge on its western side and exited again in the southern corner where the hedge and dike met the sides of a great hill. At each of these points stood a gate, which presumably was closed and guarded after nightfall.  
  
Passing through the gate, Joe could not help but think they had taken a rather large step back in time. The Watcher estimated at least one hundred stone houses made a large part of the landscape. There were patches of fields where horses roamed, as well as a few cows. The details of the village were intricate, so much so that the Watcher could swear it was the real thing - down to some of the villager's rotted teeth and dirty faces. Joe constantly had to remind himself they were at the Renaissance festival.  
  
"These festivals get pretty detailed, don't they Old Man?" Joe remarked. The Ancient One merely smiled.  
  
"Ever get the feeling we're the ones who're odd?" the Watcher asked.  
  
Indeed, for since they entered the stone gates, the Immortals and Watcher drew many stares. Wherever they passed, men and women even stopped on the road and openly gawked at them, before quickly continuing on their way. Others even refused to meet their eyes. Everywhere, the participants of the festival were in character. Most of the men were broad of body and short in stature, while others were tall. Brown seemed to be the dominant hair color. These participants were outdoors folks as well, for many of them sported sun-weathered skin, the lines on their faces carved deep as they glanced up at the men on horseback. Pipes jutted from many mouths, but not pipes like Duncan had seen Fitzcairn puff away. The current fashion of the stems was long and curved.  
  
"Are we at the North Pole?"  
  
"What makes you say that?" Methos asked.  
  
"Look over there - I didn't know Elves were here, Methos. I thought they liked cold weather." Joe commented quietly, staring back at the unusually short people.  
  
"You know, Joe, in over 400 years I've never seen a werewolf, Elf, or vampire. This place could almost make me believe in Elves." The Highlander said in an undertone, nodding towards the short people that captured their collective attentions.  
  
Mixed along with the men were little folk; not even the tallest seemed to exceed four feet in height. For their height and build, the 'Elves' limbs were perfectly proportioned . . . except for their large, hairy bare feet. Even the female Elves had hairy feet. At first, because of their height, the Watcher thought them to be children, but after a closer look, he decided their surprisingly mature faces were not child like at all. Although the elf like creatures moved about the village freely, Joe could see most were headed towards the hillsides above the stone houses of the village.  
  
"Maybe if we look hard enough, we'll find a troll hiding under a bridge." Duncan joked.  
  
"And the Billy goats gruff - huh Mac?" Joe joined.  
  
"You never know . . . Let's go see what this place has to offer." the Old Guy suggested.  
  
"Where are we going Methos?" Duncan asked.  
  
"To get a beer, MacLeod. Isn't that why we're here?" Methos replied.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Well, it looks to me as if most of the traffic is headed over there." Methos replied, nodding towards a sign with a rearing white horse. "Seems to me like a good place to start," the Eldest said.  
  
The Ancient One led the way to a stable where other travelers on horseback led their steeds. While the Highlander helped the Watcher off the gray horse, the stable attendant cautiously approached the tall, dark stranger in a long outer coat. One could never be too careful these days, for strange folk were about and the three riding up to his stable were the like he had never seen.  
  
Methos spoke with the stable hand --whose name he learned was 'Bob' -- in low tones, listening quietly to the answers. He studied the short man before him with undisguised curiosity before he pressed something into his hand. Wide eyed, the stable hand stared at the gold coin in his hand and bit it before nodding eagerly as he took their two horses away. Methos went to join his companions who were waiting for him beneath the wooden sign. When they entered, all conversation slowly came to a halt.  
  
"Talk about making a dramatic entrance." the Watcher muttered under his breath.  
  
The good folk cast uneasy, suspicious stares towards the Strangers. The folk of Bree recently learned that Middle-Earth was full of strange creatures beyond count, as well as strange folk abroad. The Strangers entering the tavern caused more than a few uneasy stares thrown their way. Standing just inside the doorway, the trio let their sights adjust to the dim interior before entering. Inside the dim tavern, against the wall leaned various staves. Since there was no billiard tables present one would correctly presume them to be walking sticks. There was something about the great common room's exposed wooden beams, the smoky atmosphere from lit pipes and simple garb of rough, homespun wool that made them nostalgic for their early days.  
  
Joe, on the other hand, did not see a single amenity to which he was accustomed. No light bulbs hung from the ceiling, every tabletop held a single candle in a pewter holder. No music blared from a jukebox or radio, just the chatter of voices and raucous laughter. The creak of leather and clanking sounds of metal could be heard above the din. The spartan tavern was simply furnished: a roaring fire burned in a hearth large enough to roast a cow, rough plank tables, mugs and steins that were made of carven wood or pewter. Moreover, judging by the food, it was simple as well. Loaves of coarse bread, both dark and light, were served on shallow, carven wood platters, and the spoons were nothing like he was used to seeing - except for the ones in the movies.  
  
"Come on Joe. Let's take a load off." Spying a long table with space, Methos confidently led the way.  
  
"You don't have to tell me twice. Been a while since I have been on a hump this long. Since you ran out o' gas runnin' from Morgan Walker - remember that, Methos?"  
  
"I remember." Methos said as he studied the other patrons. The Quickening from that son-of-a-bitch was most satisfying.  
  
At long last, after 195 years, Methos had exacted revenge for his sweet Charlotte, the beautiful slave whom he loved from afar and shared one brief, blissful night . . . before she was murdered. Charlotte paid for their passion with her life. Her owner, the cruel slave master and Immortal, Morgan Walker, another Immortal, had returned early and literally almost caught the Ancient One with his pants down. What Walker found instead was his bed mussed and his slave fresh from the arms of another. Methos' past indiscretion had caused her to pay dearly. It was the Ancient's every intention that his most recent 'indiscretion' be set right and not cost his friend a loved one as well. Methos' eyes settled on the dark figure in the corner. In the corner was a Man who was observing them with dark, intense eyes. The Ancient One discretely studied him as well, his gut telling him they were close to their goal.  
  
"Hey MacLeod, why don't you get us a round?" the Eldest suggested.  
  
"Yeah, sounds like a good idea." the Highlander said, his dark gaze sweeping the room.  
  
"Gregory was right, Mac." Joe commented.  
  
"Oh?" the Highlander prompted.  
  
"He said the people would be 'colorful'."  
  
And they were. It was not filled to capacity with customers, but it was busy enough; the clientele of this drinking establishment fully embraced spirit of the Festival. Sneezing, the Watcher held his handkerchief under his nose, and kept it there, hoping the cotton square would filter the smell of unwashed bodies. It did not work. The mingled odors of leather, horse, food and sweaty men fresh from their labors and their clothes stained with grease and dirt just added to the . . .  
  
"Ambiance; this place reeks of it, doesn't it Joe." Methos commented, looking around.  
  
"Yeah, it reeks all right. I'd call it body odor, though. Jeez, is there a rule against bathing?" the Watcher complained, breathing through his mouth.  
  
"Ah, Joe - you're being so prissy. If you think this is bad, you should've seen the Bronze Age." the Eldest said, watching the Highlander make his way to the bar. The patrons on either side of the counter made way for the Immortal, uneasily appraising him. Duncan nodded in greeting to them; some hesitantly returned the salutation, others left to go to the other side. Although there was plenty of room at the counter, the other patrons crowded around the other bar flies, murmuring in low voices and openly staring at the Highlander and his companions.  
  
"Barkeep, three rounds of Scotch, please." Duncan called out.  
  
Wiping a wooden cup with a brown cloth, the barkeep tried to keep a brave front. The Stranger before him was unlike any other he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, but he felt reassured with the dark figure resting in his shadowy corner. The Ranger would intervene if necessary.  
  
"We don't have round Scotchs here, sir." he replied carefully. The last time Strangers came to this peaceful village, they terrorized Bree and the surrounding countryside, disturbing the quiet and harmony. Business at the Prancing Pony declined sharply. After the War of the Ring, it was slowly recovering.  
  
"What do you have?" Duncan asked. Though it was refreshing to attend a Festival that was a stickler with the little details, the Highlander wondered why the stringent rules applied to the liquor as well. After the forest altercation, he was ready for a stiff drink. It was fortunate for the barkeep that his suspicious attitude did not bother the Highlander one bit.  
  
"Beer, mead and wine." he replied. Affable by nature, the suds dealer saw that the Stranger was not only polite, but didn't seem to be trouble. Likewise, Duncan studied the man before him. Portly of build, the coarse hairs of his handlebar mustache joined the mutton chop sideburns. His brown hair held a hint of red that was thinning slightly in front.  
  
"Two of those --" Duncan nodded to the pewter mugs of the men across from him.  
  
"A pint?"  
  
"And one of mead." the Highlander added.  
  
"Right away, Mr. -?"  
  
"MacLeod."  
  
"Barliman Butterbur at your service. Can I be getting anything else for you, Mr. MacLeod?"  
  
"Oi, Butterbur - we're dry over here!"  
  
"Nob! See to them, please!" Barliman Butterbur called out. One of the Elves they saw entering the village caught Duncan's attention as he dropped the rag he was using to wipe a table to scurry off and do as instructed.  
  
"The woolly footed slow-coach - he means well, bless him!" the barkeep said in an undertone.  
  
"Why do you put a child to work in your pub?" The Highlander asked with grim disapproval.  
  
"Child?" Barliman repeated, puzzled; he followed the Scotsman's gaze. "Nob?! The wooly pated ninny's no child - though he may as well be!" assured the Man before him meant no harm, Barliman chuckled.  
  
"That Elf's not a child?" Duncan repeated, incredulous. He didn't see Nob's face clearly, had he been able to, the Highlander would not have seen the face of a child. Barliman looked at his unusual patron strangely, wondering if the man before him was a simpleton as well.  
  
"Nob's no 'Elf', and he's certainly not a child. He's a 'Hobbit' - a 'Halfling', one of the Little Folk!" the barkeep said.  
  
Barliman chuckled to himself again and turned away as another customer claimed his attention. The proprietor wished to speak with the Stranger again. The fellow seemed harmless enough, and the proprietor of the Inn was eager to learn more about him and his companions. It would keep the village talking for quite a while. Of that, he was certain. After all, the Prancing Pony didn't earn its reputation for being the center of news and gossip for nothing.  
  
"What's there to eat today?" Duncan asked.  
  
This outing to the village was certainly taking on a decidedly odd flavor. The Highlander was convinced the players embraced the spirit of the Festival too rabidly. It'd be a relief to get this trip over with so he could resume his search for Jordie. He planned to ask Gregory to allow him the use of his Stone again, certain it would make all the difference in his search.  
  
"Well, we have smoked capon, baked chicken, fried goose, smoked eel, stewed fish . . . hmmm, we might have some salmon left - but I have to check, first - oh and the salted beef it quite good."  
  
"Three orders of the chicken and beef . . . with the mead and beer, please." Duncan ordered.  
  
"Ah, excellent choices, Mr. MacLeod. I'll have Nob bring it to your table when it's ready." the proprietor said as the Scotsman nodded in agreement.  
  
"Somebody forgot their book." Duncan commented, nodding towards the large tome that rested on the counter. Resting atop it was a feather quill; beside it was a small cup filled with extra quills, on the other side was a pot of ink.  
  
"'Tis a registry for our guests."  
  
"Registry? Is this a hotel?" Duncan asked. Barliman gave the Immortal a quizzical look.  
  
"'Hotel'? Nay, the Prancing Pony 'tis an 'Inn'." the Proprietor answered.  
  
It was the Clansman's turn to give the Bree Man a strange look. Writing it off as a subtle hint to speak in Festival terms, the Highlander just smiled and pulled out his billfold. He placed a fifty Euro bill on the counter, momentarily distracted when a man suddenly appeared to his right. Clad in dark, dusty clothes, his dark head was uncovered, and he wore rough woven gloves with the tips cut off. Strapped to his back were weapons that no doubt were put to use time and again. He did not look at the Highlander, which gave the Immortal the chance to openly study him.  
  
"Another pint," The man ordered.  
  
"Right away," Busying himself behind the counter, Butterbur pushed the requested beverage in front of the man and set the Highlander's order before him as well. Duncan gathered up the drinks and turned to make his way to the table where Joe and Methos waited.  
  
"Will you be payin' for your purchase now Mr. MacLeod?" Butterbur asked.  
  
"It's right there." Duncan called over his shoulder.  
  
Barliman looked at the counter, seeing nothing but a colorful piece of parchment. With his pint in hand, the dark clad man turned to leave but hesitated as well. Barliman addressed the Immortal again.  
  
"Shall I bill you later, Mr. MacLeod?" he asked again slowly; his eyes were still on the parchment, but Barliman Butterbur was, after all, a businessman. He wondered if the Stranger did not understand the question - though it was a simple enough query. Surely, the Outlander understands the simple concept of payment up front for goods or services rendered.  
  
* * No matter, * * the Proprietor thought; he was willing to call upon the Ranger to set things right . . . if it came down to it. Relieved he had a reliable method for securing payment, Barliman wondered what to do with the parchment on the counter.  
  
Deciding the colorful parchment was harmless, Barliman picked up the bill. Studying the unusual pictures on the bank note, Barliman did not know what to make of the strange symbols. Holding it up to the light, the Euro's security feature became a dark line. Holding the note to the candle, the Proprietor gaped with wonder at the hologram foil patch, watching with child like wonder as the ink colors shifted from a purplish color to olive green. Clearing his throat nervously, Barliman tried to look stern.  
  
"'Tis . . . pretty no doubt, Mr. MacLeod, but that'll be -"  
  
* * What is wrong with these people? * * the Immortal wondered, turning back and address the proprietor. Surely, the drinks and food did not cost more than what he had already paid.  
  
"Here - MacLeod, why don't you take these to Joe? I'm sure he could use it." Methos interjected.  
  
Duncan looked at the Watcher; their food had arrived and Joe was waiting rather impatiently. Seeing the Highlander look his way, the Watcher pretended to take an exaggerated drink from an invisible cup in his hand to signal his thirst, prompting the Scotsman to hurry it up. As the Highlander left, Methos addressed the rotund man behind the counter.  
  
"I hope this will cover the costs of our food and drinks . . . and lodgings for the night." Methos pulled a gold coin from the leather pouch in his overcoat and placed it on the counter, pushing it towards the barkeep.  
  
"'Twill be more than enough, sir." Barliman's eyes lit up as he reached for the coin. It had been a while since customers had paid up front, and this Stranger had paid handsomely up front. Before his beefy hand could touch the coin, the gold disappeared beneath Methos' hand.  
  
"We seek the Peredhel." Methos said in a firm, yet quiet voice. Barliman blanched slightly and Methos noted with interest how the barkeep blinked rapidly before his gaze flicked briefly to the black clad man standing beside the Immortal.  
  
"Er, I - I --what did you say your name was Mr. -?"  
  
"I didn't." the Immortal said with a tiny smile. "Please let us know when our rooms are ready." Methos requested.  
  
"Yes sir," Barliman replied.  
  
As he walked away, the Immortal allowed the hastily hidden item to fall from his sleeve. Watching the Stranger return to his companions, the square on the floor caught his eye. Stooping, the Man picked it up and almost dropped it again. Quickly and carefully, he tucked it into his worn tunic, hoping those he awaited would soon arrive. Methos' approaching figure obscured the black clad man as he stooped to pick something up before he returned to his own table.  
  
"Methos, what's really going on here?" the Highlander questioned his friend when the Eldest returned to the table and helped himself to his share of the food.  
  
"Looks like we're eating, MacLeod." Methos replied innocently.  
  
"You know what I mean." Duncan warned. He was not in the mood to play word games with the Eldest.  
  
"Well?" the Highlander prompted the Elder. Methos did not answer, for the Immortals stiffened. From their reactions, the Watcher knew Immortals were about to enter the room.  
  
The Highlander and his companion's gaze swung towards the door, watching the two hooded and cloaked figures silhouetted in the entry. They paused before stepping forward, paying no heed to the other patrons. The tall figures uncovered their heads as they went to join the dark figure seated in the shadows. Their dark hair was long, and hung on either side of their face. In the dim light, Duncan and Methos could see the unknown Immortals were pale skinned as well. They were also identical twins.  
  
"Immortal twins? That's new." Joe said, stealing furtive glances at the pair.  
  
"What do you think, MacLeod? Romulans or Vulcans?" Methos said softly. He could not resist the opportunity to stir up a little . . . 'fun'.  
  
"I think they must not like their Star Fleet uniforms." the Highlander replied.  
  
This was proving to be quite . . . interesting, for the recent arrivals' ears were pointed. The Highlander swore the two men who entered were on the wrong side of the great oceanic pond, for the annual International Comic Convention, known for attracting participants who paid painstaking attention to detail in their costuming, was held in San Diego, California, and not in Europe. Unless said men were masquerading as something else.  
  
"It can't be. . . " the Highlander murmured.  
  
"What can't be?" Methos prompted, turning his gaze back at his companions.  
  
"Well, that little guy who brought our food is a 'Hobbit', not an Elf. Those Men over there cannot be Elves. Everybody knows Elves don't exist" the Highlander said.  
  
"Same could be said for us, MacLeod -- and little green men." Methos said with a grin on his face.  
  
The Highlander gave the Elder Immortal an impatient look before turning his attention back to his meal. The Watcher followed suit, dismissing the subjects of their conversation as simply another hard-core Festival celebrant in amazingly detailed costume.  
  
Waiting impatiently in the shadowed corner for the Lords to arrive, Breiric continued to observe the Strangers. The quality of their clothes he had never seen before and they smelled of a strange fragrance, similar yet unlike the perfumes the Elves were known to favor, not the stench of sweat and horse that he was accustomed to. When the door swung open to admit the Elven Lords, the Ranger could not help but feel relief. They would know what to do. Watching as they made their way to the table, they exchanged greetings.  
  
"My Lords, I have most distressing news." Breiric said grimly.  
  
"Mani naa ta (what is it)?" Elladan asked.  
  
Beside him, he felt his brother stiffen in anticipation. From his tunic, the Ranger carefully withdrew the glossy, colorful square of parchment and laid it on the table between them. The Elves drew back, their grey eyes widened in horror as they gazed down at the familiar face; their grey eyes were riveted on the woman's face - and not just any woman! For frozen in astonishingly exact detail on the shiny square of parchment was the Lady Jordan.  
  
"Manke tanya tuula (where did that come from)?"  
  
"Mani naa tanya nat' (what is that thing)?"  
  
With an expression known to none but themselves, Elladan and Elrohir shot each other an impatient look, for they had both spoken at the same time, as twins were known to do. The Ranger's grey eyes flicked past his companions, watching.  
  
"The Old Man must be their wizard - the other two defer to him. The Dark One is called 'MacLeod', he must be their servant. I am unsure what purpose the Other One serves." Breiric said quietly.  
  
The Elves did not bother looking, for they immediately noticed the Strangers upon their entrance; their keen ears heard the scraping of the wooden benches and the footsteps as they rose to leave the establishment. Leaning forward, the Elves laid out their plan . . .  
  
"We will capture their wizard."  
  
#  
  
"That was the finest beer I've ever tasted. Ever." Methos commented. And it was - the quality was unsurpassed and he'd drank enough in many lifetimes to know.  
  
* * Too bad we will not be staying long enough to enjoy more.* * the Immortal thought ruefully to himself.  
  
Watcher and Immortals took a quick look around the village, trying hard to not mind the villagers who stared and crossed the road when their paths would bring them in direct contact. Duncan was ready to leave.  
  
"Let's go. I have had enough of this place. We have not only had the beer, but the food as well. We can tell Gregory we went beyond the call of duty," the younger Immortal said. The Eldest snorted but kept his comments to himself. Methos remained silent as he followed his companions.  
  
"I'm with you Mac," the Watcher agreed.  
  
As if Parisians were not bad enough, the Watcher was convinced the village was filled with idiots. Apparently the trio were beyond their cell phone's coverage, and no matter where they went, there was no public phone available. Their inquiries as to the location of one was met with dumbfounded looks.  
  
"They're still here." the Highlander commented. The Buzz alerted them to the twins' presence.  
  
"Well, since they're not hunting either of you, I say let's go. I'll have to start new files and see about getting a Watcher on them as well." Joe said. It was highly unusual to find Immortal twins, or at least ones who go through great pains to look like mirror images of each other.  
  
"Where you goin' Methos?" the Highlander asked when he went in a different direction - to the Prancing Pony.  
  
"I'm not about to walk back; I thought we'd borrow the horses a little longer then turn them loose when we're done." the Old Guy answered, leading the younger Immortal and Watcher towards the stables. Bob, the other 'Hobbit' was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Didn't you do valet stabling, Methos?" the Highlander inquired.  
  
"Well, he appears to be out to lunch at the moment." the Ancient One answered. "Looks like we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, eh, MacLeod?" Methos said.  
  
"I'll wait out here, guys." Joe said.  
  
"Come inside Joe - there's bales of hay stacked up. You can have a seat while we get the horses ready. It may be a while 'because we might have to look for the tack." Methos suggested. The Watcher thought for a second before deciding the Immortal was right. He was not looking forward to riding the horse again.  
  
The trio entered the stables; spying their horses at the far end of the stable Duncan went to retrieve his saddle. Methos turned back in time to see the black clad man come up behind the Watcher with a short sword drawn. The simultaneous gunshot and the attacker's cry made Duncan spin around.  
  
"Get your hands off me! What the hell are you doing?" From seemingly out of nowhere, one of the unknown Immortals appeared and held the Watcher immobilized from behind, a curved knife was held to Joe's throat. Duncan's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Let him go." the Highlander commanded in a quiet voice.  
  
"You didn't have to shoot him." Duncan said to the Ancient One in an undertone.  
  
"That's beside the point now, isn't it? He'll be fine." Methos said.  
  
From the shadows of the stables, the Immortals saw the other twin had suddenly and noiselessly appeared as well and was helping the black-clad man hobble off. Sheltered behind a stall, the man drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it, aiming for the Ancient One. The horses were uneasy, their hooves stamping and their high-pitched whinnies signaled their nervousness.  
  
"Looks like Robin Hood's got you in his sights, Adam. Don't think he liked getting shot, either." the Highlander commented; Methos gave the Scot a wry grin.  
  
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You know this is against the Rules. Are you here for me?" the Highlander asked, reaching for his Katana. There was a chance the Immortals could not know both he and Methos were Immortal, and he intended for it to stay that way . . . if he could just keep them occupied.  
  
"Stay your hand!" the tall One commanded. Duncan froze and held his hands up.  
  
"We are here for the wizard."  
  
"Wha-? What wizard? You crazy son-of-a-bitch, lemme go!" Joe struggled against his captor, but it was futile, for his strong grip soon turned painful. The Watcher sagged in his arms, but the Immortal easily continued to hold him upright.  
  
"Dina (be silent)!"  
  
"Huh?" Joe asked, wondering who 'Dina' was. Elrohir paused, wondering what manner of wizard he held captive if he could not understand Elvish.  
  
"Silence! Else I cut your tongue from your head. You'll not work your foul magic in our presence." The Elf hissed.  
  
"Let him go." Duncan repeated.  
  
"Nay, not till he reverses his spell."  
  
"Spell? What spell?" Joe asked.  
  
"Silence!" Elrohir roared, pressing his blade against Joe's neck, the sharp blade cut his skin. Immediately, Joe fell silent. Duncan's lips thinned as he saw the thin red line appear on his friend's neck. This . . . 'farce' of a situation was going too far, and he was getting tired of it.  
  
"If you don't let him go, I'm going to contact my lawyer and sue your ass off. Then I'll shut down this place *and* I'll take those stupid ears of yours as well." Duncan threatened. The Highlander and the Watcher's assailant stared at each other, each just as angry as the other.  
  
"Somehow I don't think he cares, MacLeod." Methos commented, shrugging at the younger Immortal's glare. Methos had remained silent during the exchange, letting the Highlander handle the situation. Duncan tried a different approach. It was clear this actor was playing his role to the hilt; perhaps humoring him a little longer would not hurt as he tried to edge closer.  
  
"Look, Joe's a lot of things, but he's not a whiz, and he's definitely not a wizard -" the Highlander began, ignoring his friend's glare ". . . and we don't know what you're talking about." The Highlander finished.  
  
"You have enchanted and trapped the Lady with your foul devilry. Release her at once!" Elrohir said into the Watcher's ear.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Duncan asked, studying the situation. He had to get Joe away from the crazed man without getting him killed.  
  
"That!" Elrohir spat in a deadly tone as he turned the Watcher to face his brother. Cradled carefully in his twin's hand was Jordan's picture.  
  
"Hey, it's -!" the bite of the Elf's blade silenced him once more.  
  
"Do you know what that is?" Duncan asked  
  
"Aye, 'tis devilry. As we live and breathe, your wizard will not live to see the sun set if he does not release her from his dread sway. Undo your spell!" Elrohir commanded. Before matters could spiral out of control, Methos stepped in.  
  
"Lye en ten i' Peredhil (We look for the Half Elf)." the Ancient One said. Elrohir's grey gaze swung towards the Eldest, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.  
  
"Mankoi (why)?" Elladan asked; though spoken haltingly, as if unfamiliar with the words, the Stranger had spoken in the Elvish tongue. Methos turned towards the other Elf and studied him. Instinctively the Ancient One knew this one would see reason.  
  
"Because once we find the Peredhil, we will find who we seek. What you hold in your hand is called a 'picture'. A representation of a person -- an exact likeness. Moreover, the person in the picture is named Jordan Waters. She is not trapped, nor is there any wizardry or devilry involved. We are her friends. He -" Methos nodded towards the Highlander "- is her . . . kin."  
  
Elrohir hesitated. The Elf was no fool, despite the silent one's relaxed manner and words; he had drawn no sword or bow. Yet the dark metallic object he held somehow managed to injure the Dunédain from a distance.  
  
The more thoughtful of the two, Elladan could see there was truth in the stranger's words. There were similarities between them and the Lady Jordan that could not be ignored - such as their long coats and the familiar way that they spoke of the Lady Jordan.  
  
"We've come to take her home." Methos added.  
  
A/N:  
  
Surprise! At long last – an UPDATE!!! Yes, folks, the story goes ever on. . .  
  
A great, big "THANK YOU" goes out to:  
  
1. For Beta help: Raq, Silreth/Sarah, SerenaD & Dinah – you ladies have made my day! To all the (signed/anonymous) reviewers who've taken the time and effort to drop me a line or two. I'm sorry if I can't reply to the anonymous ones personally; kinda hard to do when you don't have a valid email address.  
  
Now, I do most abjectly apologize to all of you out there who've been so patient, waiting for an update. For those of you who may not know, I had out-of-town guests who stayed for 12 days; needless to say, I couldn't do much writing until they left (2/21). Then, when I was able to get to the story, my computer where I do all the writing, went kaput. So, its in the shop and is awaiting repairs, and in the meantime, I'm using emergency plan B (my prehistoric desktop).  
  
Bottom line: I'm working on the story when I can, which, unfortunately, isn't very often @ this point in time. At least until 3/2 when my laptop's supposed to return from the shop. For those of you who're * still * following the story, you are just awesome! 


	26. Reunion

Disclaimer: The character Caine Spencer/The Halcyon is on loan w/o permission from Gerald Lamb. Save for Jordan Waters, none of the recognizable characters belong to me, nor am I profiting from this story. Please save your lawsuits for someone more deserving. Review(s) greatly appreciated, as always, flames will be cheerfully ignored.

You Keep Runnin' Away   
.38 Special

I hear your high-heels clickin' down the boulevard  
You got your suitcase in hand, guess you're takin' it hard  
You swear you'll never trust another man  
Ah, but I know that you will, it's just a question of when

So open up your eyes to the light   
You've been far too alone for too many nights, oh  
Someday, someway, somewhere, love is gonna find you  
Somehow, someone is gonna beg you to stay  
But you keep on runnin', you keep runnin'  
You keep on runnin' away

I hear it whispered in the neighborhood  
At one time you were the best, it was just understood  
Then someone came and took you for a fool  
The word is out on the street that love is looking for you

So don't be fooled, you got me comin'  
I ain't no fool, you keep me runnin'  
And I don't know why  
No, I don't know why  
So open up, don't be afraid, baby  
Is there someone standin' in our way  
Won't you tell me why  
Don't you tell me goodbye, oh****

Someday, someway, somewhere, love is gonna find you  
Somehow, someone is gonna beg you to stay, baby  
Somehow, somewhere, don't look now, I'm comin' up behind you  
But you keep runnin', you keep runnin'  
You keep on runnin' away

Reunion

Stopping by Jordan's quarters only long enough to retrieve a dressing robe, the lovers quickly made their way thru the halls towards their destination. Jordan did not think about the fact they encountered nary a soul; quite bluntly, she really did not care. Legolas, on the other hand, knew better. When the Wood Elf closed the doors to the bathing room, Ceallach appeared from an adjacent hallway, silently tending to her duties as she kept the bathing room doors within sight. In fact, one could almost say she was guarding the entrance.

Inside the washroom, the Immortal and the Elf faced each other. Legolas rode practically non-stop to return to Jordan, and now that they were together, he meant to claim his prize and savor their time together alone. Over his lover's shoulder, the Wood Elf's gaze swept the room. Legolas smiled inwardly as he noted the piles of fluffy cushions and towels placed within reach.

_You will be rewarded, Ceallach._ The Prince thought to himself as his sharp ears detected her movements in the hall.

The she-Elf's aid in the courting of the Wood Elf's lover was most appreciated -- especially when Legolas heard the muted tones of laughter and conversation approaching. Before the group of she-Elves could even approach the doors, they were met by the most determined she-servant, who regretfully informed the Elven maidens the common room was unavailable; the bewildered she-Elves were unaware of the reason why it was so, and the servant was not about to tell them, either. Instead, Ceallach quickly suggested another toilet room featuring an equally delightful steam room available for their use. Though hard pressed to produce a plausible reason, the resourceful she-Elf managed to discretely and diplomatically turn away the cluster of disappointed maidens from entering, thereby ensuring the Mirkwood Prince and his consort would be undisturbed. The puzzled she-Elves murmured amongst themselves as they moved along.

Inside, Jordan was blissfully unaware of the happenings beyond the room, as well as her surroundings, for her attention was focused solely on the magnificent Elf before her. Since Legolas' unexpected return, the sight of her lover both jarred and thrilled the woman. Now that they were alone together, Jordan was overcome with a myriad of emotions that left her both giddy and flustered.

Legolas reached for his lover; without hesitation, Jordan went to him. Once her tunic was open and the gentle curve of her bosom revealed, the Elf dipped his head down to kiss her sweetly curved mounds, teasing her nipples to attention with his tongue. Jordan sighed and buried her left hand in the Elf's silky hair. Closing her eyes, she sighed as she concentrated on the sensations he evoked; before she knew it, Legolas had expertly divested the Immortal of her clothes and laid them on the nearby stone bench.

Jordan felt the blood rush to her face, staining her cheeks pink. Despite their established intimacy, the Immortal felt both embarrassed and excited by her nakedness; eager to see Legolas naked as well, Jordan's removal of the Elf's clothes was slower in comparison. When the Immortal reached his breeches, the Elf watched Jordan's reaction to the burgeoning erection he had been fighting all day, especially when he came upon her in the storeroom. The Immortal raised an interested eyebrow at its straining readiness.

"It has been this way since we parted, Melamin," Legolas murmured.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, teasingly.

"You do not know what I suffer." He replied.

"Can I do anything to help relieve your suffering . . .?" Jordan queried with a tiny smile.

"Aye . . ." Legolas said thickly, watching her sink to her knees.

Jordan slowly undid the ties of his breeches, and carefully eased the soft leggings down his narrow hips and past his long, muscular thighs. Legolas' erection sprang free; with a smile on her face, the Immortal lightly stroked the length of his elfhood, before gently cupping the sensitive sac beneath. The Mirkwood Elf groaned as his lover placed tiny kisses all along his thighs, and hips; with considerable effort, Legolas kept his breathing measured and even.

Lightly, Jordan's hands roamed over Legolas' thighs before kneading and stroking his taut buttocks, her lips mere inches away from his swollen member; Legolas' long fingers buried themselves in the Immortal's ebony hair as he closed his eyes in anticipation . . .

"Legolas, will you help me with your boots?"

The Elf opened his eyes to see Jordan on her knees looking up at him, waiting for him to lift a booted foot. With a growl of frustration, he gently grasped his lover by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet.

"Minx!" Legolas exclaimed huskily.

On his face was an expression that was part amusement and part frustration. Jordan continued to surprise him in little ways that often caused him to pause and mentally re-group. This woman certainly kept him guessing, and Legolas would not have it any other way.

"What?" Jordan asked innocently.

The Elf would almost believe her to be sincere, had not the smile Jordan struggled to contain revealed itself. He could think of a better use for her lovely mouth – and given his present state, laughter was definitely not one of them - at least for the moment.

"Enjoy your mirth, Melamin . . .," the Elf said cryptically

With practiced ease, the Wood Elf kicked off his boots. Apparently, even his legs had perfect aim, for the boots landed side by side, well away from the water's edge.

_We shall see if you still laugh when I am done with you_. he thought to himself.

Taking Jordan in his arms, Legolas delighted in the feel of her bare skin next to his. With an impish grin on her face, the Immortal took the Elf's hands in her own and led him into the pool. Jordan knew her lover probably could not see much through the water, but the woman felt wonderfully exposed.

The warm water enveloped the Immortal; the feel of it was almost as seductive as the Elf's slow kiss. When the water reached her chest, Jordan wrapped her legs around Legolas' waist as he waded towards the deep center of the pool. The Crown Prince came to a stop under the statue of the she-Elf with the urn; with Jordan's forehead tucked in the curve of the Elf's neck, Legolas held her under the fountain long enough to wet her hair, completely rinsing away all traces of the Lembas flour.

"Now I can see you, Melamin." Legolas teasingly said as Jordan blinked away the drops of water from her eyelashes.

"Now you don't . . .!" Jordan whispered with a mischievous grin.

Taking a deep breath, Jordan clasped Legolas shoulders and threw all her weight back. The move caught the Elf by surprise; Jordan's sudden and unexpected weight shift pulled Legolas off balance, and the Mirkwood Prince fell face forward into the water. Submerged, the Elf's long, golden hair swirled about his head, obscuring his view and forcing him to release his lover. Jordan took advantage of the Elf's momentary discomposure by swimming away. Feeling smug, Jordan's eyes widened when she felt Legolas' hand encircle her ankle before he effortlessly pulled her back thru the water. Before she knew it, Jordan was back in his arms, held tightly against his chest.

"You will rue that." Legolas promised.

The Elf managed to look both menacing and dignified despite the wet hair plastered to his beautiful face. Unable to help herself, Jordan burst out laughing as Legolas released her and ducked under the water. The Immortal's laughter trailed off when he failed to surface. Jordan reached under the water, feeling for the Elf. There was nothing. She was not alarmed, for her lover had to come up for air sometime. Jordan was starting to feel uneasy when he still had not surfaced.

Looking around as she tread water, the Immortal was about to dive under and search for the Elf when she thought better of it. Looking uneasily about, Jordan watched the surface of the water, looking for the telltale trail of bubbles. There was none.

"Legolas?" Jordan called.

Nothing – save the burble of the water as it cascaded from the stone urn. The steam rising from the water only increased the eerie isolation Jordan found herself in.

"Legolas! This isn't funny anymore!" the Immortal called again.

With her heart hammering in her chest, the woman took a deep breath and ducked under the water. Beneath the surface, Jordan could not see the Elf, no matter how quickly, or what direction she turned. Legolas was simply gone. The only logical conclusion, Jordan decided, was that her Elven lover had climbed out of the water as she went under in search of him. With her lungs begging for air, the Immortal broke the surface and blinked the water from her eyes.

Jordan's heart rate continued to rise as she turned about in the water, for the rippling water suddenly seemed darker, as if the very light had fled with the Wood Elf; the plants along the wall further shadowed the section of the pool she was in. Looking around, Jordan knew the Elf must yet be with her, for his clothes still lay next to hers. Puzzled, it could only mean that, unless he ran outside in all his naked glory (which Jordan highly doubted), Legolas was still under the water . . . somewhere. He had to be.

Thoroughly mystified, the Immortal decided it was most prudent to beat a hasty retreat to the shallow end of the pool -- at least until she could figure out this most interesting situation. Jordan began to swim back towards safety; she was halfway there when she suddenly felt hands cup and gently squeeze her breasts, and then it was gone. The Immortal was so startled, that she screamed, at least until her mouth filled with water. Sputtering indignantly, Jordan reached under the water in all directions, hoping to catch a hank of his golden hair, a hand – anything. She found nothing.

"Two can play that game, my Prince." The Immortal murmured, as soon as she got over her initial fright.

_You can't be far._ Jordan thought as she continued her search.

She was unsuccessful. Then she felt the quick squeeze on her buttocks. Jordan yelped in surprise and flailed in the water.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

The woman reached under the surface, searching once more for something to grab and came up with nothing. Taking a deep breath, Jordan ducked her head under water; peering in all directions, she saw nothing.

_Impossible . . . ! _ she exclaimed silently.

Legolas was not there. This was really starting to get too weird for her. Slicking her hair back, Jordan decided to retreat

while she could, and started again for the pool's edge. The Immortal almost screamed when she felt Legolas' hands caress her belly before squeezing her between her legs. As quick as she could, Jordan grabbed underwater, attempting to seize any part of the Elf. Her questing hands brushed against something, and then it was gone.

Miffed, Jordan continued on her way; her feet almost touched the bottom of the pool when a huge spray of water showered her just before the Immortal was suddenly swept up into Legolas' arms. Startled, she clung to his neck.

"Looking for me, Melamin?" he asked innocently.

"No." Jordan replied tartly.

Though her words said otherwise, Legolas noticed the woman was content to remain in his arms. It was the Elf's turn to laugh; the sound of his mirth was as golden and beautiful to the Immortal's ears as the Elf himself. It was also a sound Jordan wanted to drown in.

Nuzzling his pointed ear with the tip of her nose, the Elf shivered slightly in response and squeezed Jordan's derriere, eliciting a laugh from her. The Immortal placed a kiss on Legolas' cheek and rested her wet head in the crook of his shoulder, her fingers busy undoing his warrior's braids as he made his way back to the shallow part of the pool and deposited her on a low step. She did not feel chilled, for the balmy air, the heated water that reached just above her breasts and (best of all) Legolas' body kept her warm. The woman's playful mood turned pensive. The Elf smiled again, marveling at his mortal lover's quick change of mood.

"Why are you silent, Melamin?" he asked.

"I still can't believe you're here." Jordan murmured as she looked at him.

"I mean, I'm glad you are – but is everything all right back home?" she asked earnestly.

Legolas chuckled with amusement at the human tendency to worry.

"Do not fret; all is well, Melamin." He answered.

Behind her, the Elf gathered the toiletries he wished to use. Passing over the scented bars, Legolas instead scooped a handful of perfumed soft soap from a beautiful silver bowl. Sitting behind the woman, the Elf dipped the matching urn into the pool and filled it with warm water before setting on the ledge beside her. Legolas dolloped a handful of the soap onto Jordan's hair and carefully worked it into lather as the Immortal took the urn and poured the water out, filled it and poured it again, repeating the familiar and comforting ritual. It brought back pleasant memories of her early childhood when her mother would bathe her before bed.

"And your father? How is he?" Jordan asked.

Legolas took the filled urn from the Immortal and set it on the ledge before he buried his hands in her sudsy hair. With a sigh, Jordan closed her eyes as the Mirkwood Elf's long fingers massaged her scalp. The Immortal had not had a scalp massage since Mt. Fuji, and that was only after she had sharpened all the knives to Duncan's satisfaction. With the strength of Legolas' long legs on either side of her, Jordan leaned back against the Wood Elf and absently ran her hands over his thighs, feeling its hard smoothness; as her fingers traced the contours of the Elf's defined muscles, Jordan delighted in the strength and tensile beauty of her lover's exquisite musculature.

"You could have seen for yourself." Legolas answered mildly before rinsing her locks free of the scented lather.

"I wish I had." Jordan said as she slicked her hair away from her face. She did not see the Elf's pleased expression

"There is yet time." Legolas ventured.

"Maybe after we see this Mithrandir." Jordan replied.

She didn't say more as Legolas began to rub the scented cleanser onto her back, then the ripe, soft swell of her breasts. The soap made Jordan's skin slippery, and the Wood Elf loved the different sensation as his hands slid slowly, sensuously over her.

"Maybe." Legolas agreed.

Jordan briefly wondered more about who this Mithrandir is, and what he could possibly do for her. She did want

answers, but . . .

_Somehow it doesn't matter as much anymore._ the woman decided languidly before giving herself over to the thrill the Mirkwood Elf's skilled hands evoked.

Legolas' hand wandered near his lover's waist and then made their way lower; his fingers skimmed her mound before stroking her inner thighs. Gently, the Elf spread Jordan's legs as far as they'd go; his fingers dipped into her and found what he sought. His lover's hips arched upwards to meet his hand; the Elf began to stroke her until a low moan escaped from his lover's mouth; Jordan's head fell to one side, the offer was not lost to the Elf, for he licked and nipped at the curve of her neck, smiling to himself as he set his lover adrift on a sea of bliss.

"Mmmmm . . .! Jordan purred.

Unable to help herself, Jordan groaned as Legolas kept a constant, yet varying friction on the sensitive pearl hidden with her delicate folds. Bombarding her with the sensual stimuli, the Elf was relentless in his erotic onslaught, for his other hand was busy fondling and gently squeezing, taking his time as he reacquainted himself with his lover's body. . . . had Legolas been able to see, the Immortal's face was a study in rapture, especially when her gasps became low, throaty moans. Jordan's nails dug into the Wood Elf's thighs, bracing herself as her hips moved in time with his fingers. Behind her, the Mirkwood Prince's unmistakable erection pressed into Jordan's lower back. With one hand tangled in her wet hair, Legolas used the water to his advantage, and angled his floating lover so he could kiss her, the ministration of his hand was uninterrupted as the Mirkwood Prince brought his lover closer to her climax. Jordan was his now, ecstatic to be under his spell.

Effortlessly, the Crown Prince reached under the Immortal and lifted her out of the pool, and set the dripping woman on the fluffy piles of towels and cushions. Jordan felt no chill — only the burning desire for Legolas' touch. His mouth met hers and in that instant, exerted an unspoken command for the Immortal to lie back, be still, and focus on him; the Elf braced himself on his forearms as he settled himself between her legs. Highly aroused and slightly puzzled why Legolas stopped, Jordan smiled uncertainly, wondering what the Elf was thinking. He was looking down at her with an intense expression that flustered her; so intense, that his impossibly blue gaze seemed to be looking thru her. The Prince was struck again by Jordan's youthful shyness, for his lover's hands had fluttered up to cup her breasts, shielding the swollen, sensitized mounds from his view. Legolas gazed thoughtfully at the face that, in a remarkably short span of time, had become both so dear and precious to him.

Despite the reasons to rejoice in the hope of a better future, a shadow fell across the Elf's heart. His friendship with the mortals Aragorn and Gimli had profoundly changed him -- binding him to Middle-Earth in such a way that the Golden Elf was able to resist the call of the Sea; for how long he did not know. Legolas was determined to see his mortal friend finish his triumphant reign, to witness Elessar pass the mantle of authority to his heirs, before finally resting in glory with his forebears before him.

The two friends Legolas cared for most would surely be stolen from him, and he was powerless to stop time itself. Dwarves, like most creatures of Middle-Earth, were long lived. King Elessar, descended from the Dúnedain and blessed with remarkable longevity, would eventually succumb to the Gift of Men. Now there was Jordan . . . despite the fact that he knew virtually nothing about her, the Elf knew what he felt.

The feelings he initially struggled against for this Daughter of Man were illogical and contrary to what Legolas had hoped for himself in the future, yet he could no longer deny his heart. The brief time Legolas spent in Mirkwood among his kin, and his solitary ride to and from his beloved forest home had been all the Elf needed to confirm what he felt. It was a startling revelation, and the struggle was no less fierce than the battle to free Middle-earth from the Darkness. After searching for the answer among the stars, and most importantly – his heart, Legolas knew what he felt to be true. He touched Jordan's cheek softly, tracing the contours of her face with his fingertips.

"Melin le (I love you), Jordan." He said quietly.

Legolas looked down at his lover, searching the green eyes that haunted his reveries since the day they met.

"I missed you, too, Legolas." The Immortal replied.

Raising a dark blonde brow in consternation, the Elf smiled at that, but did not bother to correct Jordan as he ran his hands along the damp expanse of her waist.

"You have neglected your Elvish in so short a time, Melamin." Legolas chided her gently.

"Isn't that what you said?" Jordan asked, confused.

Unfortunately, the Immortal had been neglecting her Elvish; lately, Jordan had been confusing greetings with directions and amounts. Though linguistics was not a particular strength of hers, Jordan could almost swear Latin bore a faint resemblance to Elvish. At least it sounded like it sometimes.

_Good thing it did not happen in the kitchens_. The Immortal thought smugly to herself.

Jordan had counted her stint in the bakery with the Apprentices as time well spent. What she did not know was that it was an opinion she alone shared.

"It will suffice, Melamin." The Mirkwood Elf replied.

_For now._ Legolas thought to himself, making a mental not to help her brush up on her Elvish.

The time for talking was past, for Legolas intended to love his chosen one; the Elf reclaimed the woman's mouth with his and kissed her silent when Jordan was about to speak, and then again until she finally got the hint. Legolas' eyes never left Jordan's as he grasped her wrists gently and pulled them away from her chest. Kissing her palms, he placed her hands at her side. The Immortal did not move; Jordan watched as her lover's fair head lowered, and closed her eyes when Legolas drew his lips to the breast he now held in one hand.

Jordan's hands were buried in the Elf's golden hair, massaging his scalp. As the Wood Elf slowly circled his tongue around his lover's aureole, her nipple rose to meet him. Legolas suckled it luxuriously, letting his lips and tongue linger as if they enjoyed the finest confection ever created; his other hand drifted downward to stroke her thighs; coaxing them apart, his long fingers cupped her mound and pressed against it, feeling her feminine heat. It only made him harder, if that was possible. Drawing the Elf's head up, Jordan kissed him.

"Mmmmm," She purred against his lips.

Her body arched as Legolas slipped a finger into her intimate opening; though she tried to remain still, her treacherous body sought the Elf's exploring fingers.

"Does it please you, Melamin?" Legolas inquired, watching her flushed cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.

"Maybe. . ." Jordan answered; her lips curved upwards, and a teasing gleam was in her eyes as she tried to act nonchalant.

Jordan pouted when Legolas removed his hand cradled her head in his hands. The Elf covered every inch of her face with kisses. Holding the Mirkwood Prince close to her, the Immortal lightly raked her nails down either side of his spine, and then began to knead the taut muscles of Legolas' back as he nuzzled her neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh of her throat. Arching her head back, Jordan's breathing quickened as her lover began to move against her, grinding his pelvis against hers in a slow, circular rhythm.

Though he hungered for her, Legolas waited until his lover began to rock her hips against his, shifting restlessly against his in a rhythm as old as time itself. Jordan arched up to meet the Elf when he claimed her, filling the Immortal in one swift motion. The sensation was exquisite -- so tightly did he fit within her, that Jordan was convinced there was nothing else quite like being loved by Legolas. Her lover's sizeable girth pulsed and throbbed inside the Immortal, filling her until she could no longer think. Legolas repeated Jordan's name as he thrust his hardness into her softness, quietly and under his breath, as if her name and his breathing were one and the same.

The Wood Elf continued to drive into the woman, burying himself deeper within her, never once hesitating, even as Jordan shook and trembled beneath him – close, she was so close . . .! When she did reach the crest of pleasure, Jordan thought she was caught up in the lightning storm of a Quickening. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. The Immortal's conscience barely registered that Legolas had not reached that zenith with her. What she did feel was his hand reaching between them; the woman quivered as Legolas stroked her, fanning the recently stoked embers of her desire for him to burning again, until the Immortal once more called out his name, her legs wrapping tighter around his sculpted torso. Jordan seemed to explode inside, but as Legolas steadily moved within her, the excitement began to build again until the Immortal was soaring once more.

Again, Legolas brought her to climax, all the while continuing to stroke her relentlessly, never giving in to his own pleasure until his lover finally lay exhausted beneath him, too tired even to lift her head. Dimly, the Immortal hear Legolas call out her name, just in time to enjoy the feel of his essence pouring into her. The wild thudding of Legolas' heartbeat against her chest echoed hers. The Wood Elf caught himself, not wanting to drop his weight on her, yet Jordan mustered the strength to pull him close, unwilling to let him go. They lay there for several moments before Legolas rolled onto his side and pulled his happily satiated lover with him into his arms.

#

_Amin nowe ron n'kelaya (I thought they would never leave)!_ the she-Elf snorted to herself when the lovers finally

emerged from the bathing room.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to turn away other bathers who desired the room's use without revealing why, and the maiden was glad to be relieved of the task. Now that the room was vacated, the servant was finally free to see to her other duties. Ceallach bowed to the Prince and nodded in greeting to the woman at his side. Judging from the smile on Lady Jordan's face, the she-Elf knew that her efforts to afford them privacy were worth it – at least for the mortal woman. As they walked further down the halls, the Elven maiden noted with a faint twinge of envy that the Lady Jordan had a slight wobble in her walk, and despite the pairs' leisurely pace, the woman's steps were carefully measured. Impressed, Ceallach's gaze lingered on the Golden Elf's retreating form, when Maranwë, another servant, happened upon her.

"Ceallach, is that not the Mirkwood Prince?" the fair-haired she-Elf whispered, curious.

"Aye." Ceallach answered softly; her eyes not leaving the couple.

"There is word he returned early. Fortunate woman," Sighed Maranwë as the Wood Elf reached out and clasped Jordan's hand in his.

"The quest that claimed the Wood Elf's attention is over and now that the danger's past, all that . . . passion and virility is wasted on a Woman!" the Elven servant lamented.

Watching the graceful steps of the Mirkwood Elf, to the servant's mind, the Woman's steps were heavy and clumsy in comparison. Ceallach was thinking the very same thing, though she had better sense than to speak her thoughts. Maranwë, on the other hand, continued her prattling.

"No matter, Ceallach; the Prince will be free once more whence he tires of the Mortal. Her beauty will fade and the deep night shade of her hair will lighten to ash . . . she will succumb to the Gift of Men, then Lord Legolas' attentions will turn elsewhere--"

"Hold your tongue, Maranwë – lest it land you in the scullery!" Ceallach cut her friend off before she could say more.

"The Prince's choice of consort is not for us to decide." She reminded her friend gently.

"You know I speak the truth." Maranwë sniffed in reply, watching the couple disappear around a corner. No doubt, they were headed back towards the Mortal's quarters.

"Still, 'tis none of our concern," Ceallach said firmly. "Come, help me set the bathing room to rights," she bade the other she-Elf.

Giving her friend a firm look, Ceallach grasped the fair-haired maiden's arm and pulled her along. Flinging the doors open, the she-Elves surveyed the room.

Not a single towel or cushion Ceallach had laid out was dry; the drying cloths, though wrung out and neatly folded, were wet, and the cushions were soaked thru. Puddles of water pooled around their feet from the dripping corners. In addition, the fragrant, hand milled soft soap was gone.

"What transpired here?" Maranwë asked, picking up a sodden cushion.

The gorgeous silk fabric was ruined. Ceallach merely smiled and kept silent, remaining – as always, the epitome of discretion.

#

Jordan sighed contentedly as she sipped from the goblet the Elf handed her, feeling renewed as the Cordial of Imladris' warmth spread throughout her body; the wondrous liquid made the Immortal feel she could go another round of sensual gymnastics with the Mirkwood Elf. Jordan swore her body tingled and hummed, and she couldn't stop smiling. Legolas congratulated himself on having the foresight to have a flagon of Miruvor ready as he regarded his lover with amusement. He observed, with smug satisfaction, the fact that Jordan's face glowed.

If the Elf had been allowed his way, they would have dined in bed, but Jordan insisted they eat at the table, not wanting crumbs or food stains on the sheets. As they ate, Legolas was astonished with the amount of food his lover was able to put away in a single sitting. Fortunately, there was plenty of Lembas on hand should their victuals be depleted before the morning. After eating their fill, the Crown Prince told Jordan more of his trip -- the underground palace of his father, and other interesting stories before the Immortals made love again. They repeated the cycle of rest, conversation and loving (though not necessarily in that order) until Jordan begged the Elf for 'Time Out', and collapsed onto her pillows with a drowsy smile on her face. Soon, she was fast asleep. Invigorated and nowhere near satiated, Legolas climbed out of bed, nude. Jordan rolled over into the warm spot where the Elf recently lay, and snuggled deeper into the pillows. The Elf looked down at his lover, studying her.

_. . . __No matter, Ceallach; the Prince will be free once more, whence he tires of the Mortal. Her beauty will fade and the deep night shade of her hair will lighten to ash . . . she will succumb to the Gift of Men, then Lord Legolas' attentions will turn elsewhere . . . _

_NO!_ Legolas thought fiercely to himself.

He reached into the armoire where he had earlier hidden the box. Yet, even as he vehemently denied it, the Elf recognized

the truth in the servant's words as they whispered in the Prince's mind, mocking him.

_ Is it worth it -- to love a mortal? How will I truly feel when Jordan's hair loses its luster, when her eyes no longer shine with life, but become dull and rheumy? When her youthful, firm body becomes a wrinkled, ravaged shell, bowed with age? When time lines her face and she turns away in envy of my eternal youth and life – when she no longer recognizes me. . . Will I still love her?_ Legolas wondered. The shadows lengthened as the Elf contemplated the future.

"Yes." The Elf whispered to her sleeping form.

It was the person within he loved; the body was merely an attractive vessel housing Jordan's soul. Pushing the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, Legolas climbed back into his lover's bed and slid the box under the pillow. The Elf paused when he felt a hard, slender object. Carefully withdrawing it, Legolas held in his hands Jordan's katana. He studied the black lacquered scabbard critically. The baroque touches adorning the casing was unlike any he had ever seen; like the woman he had made love to, it was striking and alien. The Crown Prince was about to examine the blade when his attention was diverted as his lover whimpered softly in her sleep.

" . . . Duhnn Cann. . . . " Jordan breathed softly; her lower lip quivered, as if she were about to weep.

_Dung Can. That name again. The One she called for in the forest many moons ago. Who is this 'Dung Can'? _theElf wondered.

What is he to her? Legolas knew he could not be her past lover. Is he a friend? There would be time for him to find out, and the Elf was determined to begin unraveling the mystery on the morrow. For now, Legolas wished Jordan to rest and gather her strength, for she would need it. Brushing his lips across her cheek, the Golden Elf kissed the rounded curve of his lover's ear and leaned close.

"Lanta kaima, Melamin." Legolas whispered and she stilled once more.

It was late in the evening when Jordan awoke. Running her hands thru her raven hair, the woman winced as she encountered many snarls. The Elf, on the other hand, thought her tresses wonderfully tousled from their enthusiastic loving. Legolas' golden hair was, as usual, perfect. Reaching for her discarded robe, Jordan was about to don it, eager to get to her hairbrush.

"Leave it be. Do not hide yourself from me, Melamin." The Elf said.

Sprawled in the middle of her bed was her Elven lover in all his naked glory. Jordan, however, was still adjusting to walking around nude in front of another person. But she would do it for Legolas. Brushing her hair in front of the fire, Jordan closed her eyes and smiled. Legolas was back, and she felt at peace. For once, the Game, the Rules, work . . . nothing seemed to matter anymore. Except for one thing. The Immortal's happiness dimmed, for the only thing that would make the whole situation perfect would be for Duncan and Joe to meet Legolas. Jordan was certain the Highlander would like the Elf, for they certainly had many noble traits in common, and she was certain Gimli and Joe would get along famously. Not to mention Gimli and Duncan, for the Dwarf's accent alone was what the Immortal initially latched on to, its brogue so close to that of the Highlander's, that Jordan immediately felt comforted in this strange and wondrous land of make-believe come to life.

"Lembas for your thoughts, Melamin," Legolas' smooth voice came directly behind her.

Taking the brush from her hands, the Elf pulled it thru the Immortal's onyx hair once more before wrapping his strong arms around her; Jordan leaned back against the Elf's warm, hard body and smiled. Somehow, in that short amount of time, the Elf swiftly and silently dressed. It was almost spooky. Staring into the dancing flames, Jordan thought about her reply.

"I was just thinking that I am happy." She finally said.

Legolas turned the woman around to face him. Looking into her eyes, a half smile graced his lips.

"Oh? Do I make you happy?" the Elf asked, catching Jordan's chin in his elegant fingers when she looked away.

_Why is it so hard to be honest with my feelings?_ Jordan wondered.

_Because you won't be here forever. _ She answered.

_You're here now. Isn't that what counts?_ The Immortal thought.

"Maybe," She cautiously allowed.

The Elf searched her eyes with his probing gaze, wondering why his lover did not speak the truth he saw within their green depths. In Mirkwood, surrounded by his beloved forest and his timeless kin, Legolas often thought about Jordan, his mortal woman. Tonight. Tonight they would see where her heart lay. Releasing her chin, he stepped back.

"I would show you something. Aphado nin(follow me)." Legolas said, holding his hand out to her.

"Where?" Jordan asked as the Elf folded her hand in his and pulled her close for a quick kiss.

"Lle nauva ere (you will see)." He said mysteriously; Legolas refused to say more as he handed Jordan her night shift and a cloak.

He watched, momentarily envious of the garment as the gossamer gown slid over her dark head and skimmed her body; watching her dress in profile, Jordan's shapely backside nicely balanced the swell of her bosom. The Elf's eyes narrowed thoughtfully when Jordan reached under her pillow for her sword. The expression was gone by the time the woman turned to face the Prince.

"I'm ready." She announced.

"You do not need that, Melamin." Legolas said, eyeing her Katana with mild amusement. Donning his own cloak, the Wood Elf shouldered a lumpy rucksack just outside the balcony doors.

Sometimes the things Jordan did left the Elf genuinely puzzled. And intrigued.

"It's dark out there, Legolas. Besides . . . it's habit." Jordan replied.

The Mirkwood Prince sighed. It was on the tip of the Elf's tongue to insist she leave her weapon behind, but Legolas did not wish to argue with her and ruin the mood.

Rivendell's beauty could not be hidden by the night, instead, the moon gave the Elven realm a mysterious allurement all its own, its silver light was more than sufficient for the Elf to see his way. Jordan had not traveled this path before, and wondered where Legolas was taking her. She did know he was leading her opposite where her favorite glade lay. With her hand in his, over quaint footbridges, past natural fountains, sheltered arbors and thru shadowed paths, the Wood Elf silently tread with his lover in tow; his steps seemed to glide over the darkened ground, leaving no trace of his passing; however, the Immortal's steps bruised the emerald grass and her slippers left tracks in the rich soil. The Elf led Jordan onward, occasionally looking to see how she fared, especially when failing to heed his words resulted in her stumbling over hidden tree roots and rocks.

_There'd better be a good reason for this. _the Immortal grumbled to herself when she stubbed her toe.

Jordan was fast becoming perturbed; this outing bore an uncanny resemblance to another moonlit stroll so long ago with another Immortal. She did not enjoy the stroll then, and she was not enjoying this particular stroll, either. Now, like then, Jordan was not exactly dressed for the occasion – at least to her liking. Especially since their path led upwards.

At least the cool air prevented her from sweating profusely; Jordan was able to keep up with the Elf . . . or he was holding back on her account? It was a while before their path leveled off again. Either way, the woman was ready to head back, and she was about to insist upon it, lest they begin another upward ascent, when Legolas stopped and held aside some branches for her to see. He smiled at her suspicious glare, knowing it would not last long. He was right.

The Immortal blinked and stared in wonder at the scene before her. Legolas watched Jordan's reaction; he much preferred the quiet deep of his forest home. However, there were hidden areas in Imladris, far from the beaten paths that took even his breath away. As for Jordan, the Immortal thought they were in her favorite glade. Except for the fact that nestled within the protective ring of trees, was a large, natural pool graced with cascading waterfalls, and the clearing was filled with abundant, fragrant night blooms. Looking around, the Immortal did not protest when Legolas removed the cloak from her shoulders. The woman was surprised to discover that despite wearing practically next to nothing, and their high elevation, it was not that cold. She attributed it to the lack of wind and the trees that acted as a windbreak.

The Mirkwood Prince led Jordan to a grassy patch clear of night blooms. Legolas shrugged off his pack and chuckled when Jordan handed him her Katana, shed her footwear and fairly ran towards the pool. The Elf laid his lover's sword behind the rucksack and spread a blanket and their cloaks on the ground before unpacking the contents from the pack. Removing his boots, Legolas placed them beside Jordan's slippers. He sat upon the blanket, reveling in the scent of the long, pristine grass. The Elf rested his elbows on his knees, his long, elegant fingers loosely clasped together as he watched his lover.

With a quick glance at the inky sky, Legolas briefly wondered again what muted warnings the celestial bodies were trying to convey; though the stars shone brightly overhead, their heavenly song faltered, rife with confusion and . . . pernicious forewarnings? Now, as he attempted in Mirkwood, the Prince searched for answers, but was unable to decipher the gibbered meaning when he to probed the stars further. Troubled, Legolas held his misgivings at bay and turned his attention back to Jordan.

Standing at the water's edge, Jordan watched the moonlight reflect off the rippling surface, making the water shimmer like diamonds. Tentatively, the Immortal dipped a toe in. To her delight, the water was tepid.

"Impossible." Jordan murmured to herself.

Somehow, she was not surprised when Legolas spoke, and mentally reminded herself to watch what she said around him. No telling what his sharp hearing would pick up.

"What is, Melamin?" Legolas asked.

His words carried far in the still night air. In fact, despite the sound of the waterfall, Jordan believed they could speak in whispers and still be able to hear each other perfectly fine. She decided to test her theory.

"The water – it's almost warm! How can it be?" she whispered, looking at her lover.

"Thru the power of the Elves," The Mirkwood Prince whispered back with a smile and a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Legolas knew the Ring of Power surrounding the Elrond's realm, though always in harmony with nature, served other purposes. . . one of which both he and Jordan were now benefiting. Feeling like she can catch the moon in her hands, the Immortal raised her arms high overhead.

Jordan laughed at the fanciful thought as she stretched sensuously and turned in a slow pirouette. Bathed in starlight, the full moon's silver beam outlined Jordan's body beneath her nightshift. The Elf enjoyed the sight before him; he could see the lines of her lush, compact body, her peaked nipples, and the curve of her buttocks – an enticing aphrodisiac in itself.

Slowly walking towards the Elf, Jordan gathered the hem of her gown and raised it to mid thigh, inviting her lover's touch. Looking down at the Elf, the Immortal released the material as Legolas reached up and touched her thighs. The sheer material fell over his forearms as he slid his hands upwards to grasp her waist as Jordan knelt. Resting her hands lightly on his knees, the woman kissed Legolas' lips before raising her arms, allowing the Elf to remove her shift. Ever careful, Legolas placed the delicate gown inside the rucksack. When he turned back toward the Immortal, Jordan's eyes rested on her lover's lips as she undid the clasps of his tunic. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she gently pushed him back until he was lying down. Kneeling on all fours between his legs, Jordan hovered above Legolas, naked, their bodies not quite touching. She studied the Elf beneath her. How beautiful he was in the moonlight, with his pale hair gleaming silver. And those eyes . . . ! He seemed to reflect the stars and moon, for his naked torso glowed softly – or was it the other way around, she wondered?

"Your wounds are healed. Completely." Legolas said.

Though he meant to wait till the morrow, the Elf changed his mind. Jordan sighed inwardly. Shifting to a kneeling position, Jordan regarded her Elf as he sat up. Legolas expected his lover to evade the question as she did before, but was surprised when Jordan answered.

"Yes," she calmly acknowledged.

"How is it possible?" the Elf asked.

"Like I told you in the forest – I heal quickly." Jordan answered. Legolas cocked his head and regarded the Immortal.

"Your wounds should take days to heal, yet you are whole. It is beyond the ability of a mortal." Jordan neither confirmed nor denied his statement.

It was a golden opportunity; the chance to tell Legolas the truth. . Instead, she studied the Elf with a thoughtful expression on her face. The Immortal chose her words carefully.

"I don't know how it works, but I heal quickly. Ever since I was hit by a jeepeny, my . . . wounds heal quickly. I bleed and hurt like anyone else, but . . . I heal a little quicker than normal," she answered slowly. It was after all, the truth. Sort of.

Legolas did not know what manner of creature a 'jeepeny' was, but it did not sound pleasant. Ever since her arrival, Jordan did not speak in detail of her personal life, other than she helped heal at a place called "The Hospital", which explained her affinity for the House of Healing, the Healers and Apprentices.

"How did you disappear underwater? I couldn't see you." Jordan asked.

She wondered about a few things herself. Elves themselves were magic. It was simply a part of their being. Legolas was unsure how to explain it in terms his mortal beloved was able to understand.

"'Twas . . . 'magic'," Legolas said, smiling at Jordan's skeptical expression.

"I merely invoked an invisibility spell." He explained.

"Are all Elves magic users?" Jordan asked.

"To varying degrees," Legolas answered.

Since Jordan was sharing information, the Elf wished to know more. Legolas thought back to the night in Trollshaw Forest when he thought her asleep, and from a distance away, believed her to be. Instead, before he reached their campsite, Legolas watched Jordan startle awake. In fact, she peered into the night and searched the shadows until he revealed himself. And in the glade, Jordan looked in his direction, though he remained hidden high in the tree limbs above.

"How is it you know when I approach? No Mortal is able to." Jordan almost laughed aloud, but remained silent though a smile escaped her.

_Because I am not mortal._ the woman thought.

"It's a feeling I get about you deep inside." Jordan answered honestly with a teasing smile.

What Jordan did not tell the Elf was that she got the same feeling about all other Immortals. It was the Elf's turn to look skeptical. The Immortal decided her lover was asking way too many questions. What Jordan disliked even more was the fact that she was answering them. Jordan suspected that, without much effort, the Wood Elf could pull the deepest secrets from her heart. Jordan decided to try to distract the Elf, when an idea came to her when her eyes fell on the fruit the Elf spread on the blanket. Perhaps there was a way to compromise . . .

"There are five senses most living creatures have. " Jordan said as she straddled the Elf's thighs. Legolas wondered what his lover was up to.

"Sight," Jordan kissed his eyes closed as she looped her arms loosely around the Elf's neck.

"Aye." He answered softly.

With the woman naked in his lap, conversation was definitely not what he had in mind. Legolas grasped Jordan's waist and settled her in his lap so that she could feel his growing erection. The Wood Elf hoped Jordan would take the not-so-subtle hint.

Perhaps it was fortunate Legolas still wore his breeches, for Jordan was not done. The Immortal took an orange from the pile of fruit and scratched the peel, releasing the fragrant oil in the zest before she held it under Legolas' nose.

"Smell." Jordan murmured.

The Elf's wandering hands threatened to distract the Immortal from her purpose; already, she was aching for him. Jordan rubbed the Elf's nose with her own then she kissed the tip as she tore the orange in half and separated a section, peeling off the stringy white pith. Enjoying their little game, Legolas kept his eyes closed, preferring to use his other senses. He was just a little harder; Jordan could definitely feel the difference. Though he had loved her in the bathing room, and many times since in the privacy of her quarters, Legolas wondered at the woman straddling him; every time they joined felt like the first time. As if that was not bad enough, Jordan effortlessly had him in a constant state of arousal. Legolas could not recall ever wanting a maiden so badly.

"Taste."

The Immortal placed section of the orange in Legolas' mouth; watching his lips, Jordan fought the urge to kiss him. It did not last long, licking her lips, Jordan savored the citrusy taste on her lover's tongue.

"Sound."

The Immortal whispered in his ear then traced the pointed tip with her lips, smiling as Legolas shifted restlessly beneath her.

"Touch."

Reaching down, Jordan ever so gently squeezed Legolas between his legs. The Elf's eyes flew open, hot with desire. Legolas' blue gaze rested on the Lórien leaf suspended at his eye level between them. Hooking a finger in the delicate chain, the Mirkwood Elf gently pulled Jordan to him for a searing kiss. Dropping the orange onto the blanket, Jordan used one hand to slowly undo the ties of his leggings, the other to stroke and gently squeeze his engorged elfhood thru his breeches. With a growl, Legolas rolled Jordan over, settled himself between her legs, and rubbed against her suggestively.

Lowering his golden head to the woman's luscious breasts, the Elf kissed them softly, avoiding the tempting areoles to stir her desire further. When he did finally put his lips to her pointed nipple, Jordan moaned. Her nipples hardened as Legolas flicked his warm tongue over them. When they seemed to be as plump as he could make them, the Elf suckled one. Jordan's moans increased and she stroked his head encouragingly.

Her lover held one breast in each palm and alternated between them, licking the nipples until Jordan nearly swooned and then the Elf switched to the other. Legolas looked up at her face because he loved to watch her reaction; the woman's eyes were closed and her head was tilted back — Jordan looked lost in a wonderful dream with her pretty face in a kind of trance; she would never ask her Mirkwood lover for what she wanted — her modesty prevented it — instead, she sent subtle signals to the Elf. Swift to read and learn them, Legolas was happy to oblige. Now Jordan rocked her hips forward and back in a slightly suggestive rhythm, unconsciously asking to be filled by him.

Legolas kissed his way down Jordan's body, from breastbone to navel, and then slowed his pace as he approached her mound. Hovering over her, the Elf inhaled deeply; Jordan filled up his senses; her clean, uniquely feminine scent mingled with that of the surrounding flowers; it was a marvelously heady combination that hardened Legolas more and made him slightly dizzy as the blood rushed to his elfhood. Jordan's hands went to his head. She tensed and attempted to draw her thighs together.

"Legolas . . ." Jordan said, uncertainly.

The Immortal raised herself on her elbows and began to sit up. She had a strong indication where this was leading, and Jordan was not sure if she was ready for . . . **_that_**. The Elf looked up at her, a smile threatening to surface.

"Estelio enni, meleth nín (Trust in me, my love)." Legolas murmured against her lips before kissing her deeply.

With his excellent night vision, Legolas could see his lover's face was an endearingly bright shade of red. He was going to enjoy this, and was confident that Jordan would, too -- if she would only relax. Kissing her eyes closed, Legolas silently encouraged her to let her senses guide her; his mouth worshipped Jordan's mouth. His hands were busy stroking his lover's hips before he inserted his long fingers and caressed her intimately. Nibbling at her neck, the Mirkwood Prince could feel Jordan's pulse race beneath his lips. Working his way downward, his mouth left a hot trail as he moved from her breasts to her belly. Slowly relaxing under Legolas' skillful touch, Jordan moaned and spread her legs a bit wider as his fingers massaged her wetness. Smiling inwardly, Legolas glanced at his lover's face. She had opened her eyes, her gaze enveloping him in a mute message of loving trust and heated desire.

Legolas gently parted his lover's knees and placed warm, moist kisses upon her inner thighs and all along the contours of her labia. However, it was just the beginning. With his hands, Legolas gently parted her swollen nether lips to expose every glistening part of her. Her hidden pearl was enticingly revealed to him -- his for the taking; the Elf decided he would save that for last. The Mirkwood Prince paused. Beneath him, his lover quivered with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Legolas' own arousal was magnified tenfold, but he restrained himself, his only thought now was to please his lover.

Lowering his golden head, Legolas dipped his tongue into her womanly nectar. Jordan tasted of salt air and fresh breezes but also of rich, spicy femininity. The Immortal gasped and almost fainted when she felt his intimate kiss. As his tongue played at and licked her engorged nub, the Immortal spread herself wide for him, lost in the myriad of new, intensely erotic sensations. Legolas swirled his tongue around the raised nub very slowly, altering the rhythm and direction of his tongue in order to prolong the sensual agony of his lover's pleasure. Her entire body stiffened and arched as she buried her hands in the Elf's silky hair. With one hand on her belly, Legolas gently held his lover down; her legs were splayed open for him now in wanton abandon as he relentlessly continued to explore her intimate regions.

The Wood Elf reveled in the sound of his name on Jordan's lips as his lover called his name over and over again; it drove him on as he rhythmically plunged his tongue deep within her. Legolas left no part of her velvety folds untouched . . . untasted . . . unlicked . . . unloved.

When Jordan came, her cries of pleasure filled the air, but the Elf was not finished with her. Panting, Jordan had not yet caught her breath; she raised her head to see Legolas' golden head still buried between her legs. Not bothering to stifle her throaty moans, Jordan's hands knotted the blanket as she groaned; the Immortal's body undulated and bucked as Legolas continued to greedily lick her, before he gently and steadily suckled the little bundle of nerves, pushing his lover once again over the edge of whatever precipice she called pleasure. Her cries only served to inflame the Elf's desire; his elfhood was now so hard he could barely even think.

"Legolas . . . !" Jordan pleaded.

Flipping her over, the Elf stroked her smooth backside and pulled her hips toward him. With his elfhood past the point of containment, Jordan barely had time to brace herself on her forearms when Legolas mounted her from behind. The Wood Elf gritted his teeth as he sheathed himself inside her; his breath came in ragged gasps as he felt the sweet heat of her envelope his turgid member. If Jordan was any hotter, Legolas swore he might have felt pain. Thru the hazes of pleasure, the Immortal heard Legolas speak in Elvish, a little sounded familiar, but most she did not understand, and the Immortal didn't bother trying.

"Melithon le anuir (I will love you forever), Jordan!" the Elf hoarsely proclaimed his love for the Immortal to the heavens above.

Unfortunately, Jordan was unaware of the magnitude of her lover's words, for she was being intensely pleasured, fast approaching the bliss that she had just reached moments before – and now she was reaching for the stars yet again. Jordan, however, did hear when Legolas called her name out as he thrust in and out of her warm, tight walls; his ragged groans mingled with hers as he felt her intimate vise squeeze his elfhood. The Immortal rocked back to meet each possessive thrust as her lover delved deeper into her with each powerful, rhythmic push. Legolas forced himself to contain his release until Jordan reached her climax. And another.

Finally, when many minutes had passed and he knew Jordan could not stand much more pleasure, the Mirkwood Elf gave in to his need and surrendered to her. His own orgasm surged forth, the heat racing from his belly, thru his elfhood to explode deep within his lover's womb, pouring into her and filling her with his essence. Legolas' shout of pleasure echoed across the water. Still joined, the spent lovers laid together in a tangle of limbs, surrounded by nature's wonders as they caught their breaths. Legolas pulled Jordan close and spooned her to him; they lay that way in silent contentment until she spoke

"Do all Elves have such stamina in bed?" Jordan murmured, happily exhausted.

Had Jordan been able to see, Legolas' smile was unabashedly arrogant.

"We do not tire easily like humans." He answered.

The woman rolled her eyes at his smug tone of voice.

"I believe it," the Immortal said wearily.

Jordan ached pleasantly and tingled all over . . . especially _there_, where the Elf paid special attention to her. Legolas had not left an inch of her body untouched. Jordan wondered if it was realistically possible to become addicted to someone (actually, one Elf in particular), for even after being repeatedly, most thoroughly and expertly loved for almost the entire day, the Immortal still burned for Legolas' touch . . . and his maddeningly skillful tongue.

_Oh, Coll – you were right! With the right One, you can't get enough . . . n__o wonder people talk about it, sing about it and pay ode to it obsessively_. Jordan thought privately.

"At this rate, you'll be the death of me." Jordan murmured tiredly, as she snuggled closer to the Elf. Legolas' arms tightened around her painfully.

"Legolas . . .?" the Immortal asked, bewildered. Jordan was unsure of what she said to ruin their previously blissful mood.

"Do not speak of death, Melamin." The Elf said sharply.

"Everything dies, Legolas." Jordan tried to shrug, but the Elf's grip on her shoulders prevented the movement. "Even Elves can die, Legolas."

"I do not want you to die, Melamin." Legolas replied.

Jordan wriggled in her lover's arms until he released her. She sat up and faced the Elf; her expression was both amused and thoughtful. Dying was unpleasant business. And it hurt. Jordan had already expired twice in her lifetime, and she had no desire to go for a 'three-peat'. Especially in Middle-Earth – for it would require some major explaining.

"Neither do I, Legolas. In fact, I plan on doing my best to stay alive for a very long time." Jordan answered softly.

Although the subject of death and dying didn't bother her (she'd been there and done that), Jordan could see it troubled the Elf. Part of her wanted to reassure him that she didn't die easy; ultimately, she decided it best to leave it unsaid, for the knowledge once given, could not be taken back. For now, Jordan decided, she must continue to be careful.

Not wanting to lose their blissful mood completely, the Immortal searched the blanket for the previously discarded orange. Perhaps she'd be able to distract her lover's attention from the morbid topic. Her gaze fell on a flat, slender wooden box. The lid was decorated with oak leaves etched in silver that glowed in the moonlight.

"What's this?" she asked, curious.

"Open it, Melamin." Legolas said.

Jordan opened the wooden box. Resting on a bed of green velvet was a choker; had it been daylight, the Immortal would better appreciate the delicate, vine-like strands of the precious metal gracefully woven together in the Elven fashion; in the middle was a loop designed to suspend a charm or other such jewel. On either side of the loop were the richest, clearest grass green emeralds that held just a touch of blue, cut and arranged to resemble tiny oak leaves.

"It's beautiful, Legolas." Jordan breathed.

At least she was sure it was. The Immortal couldn't tell what color the gemstones were, but if they came from the Elf, they would be pretty.

"It is yours." The Elf said.

Transfixed by the exquisite collar, her lover's words did not immediately sink in.

"Really – it's for me?" she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Gimli did not want it, so I thought mayhaps you would." Legolas said, with a teasing smile on his face.

"You --!" Jordan smacked the Elf on the shoulder.

Legolas caught her hand and held it over his heart. The Immortal looked at him. For a brief moment, the Immortal had an uneasy feeling of déjà vu, for the last time someone gave her a piece of jewelry, her life had taken an unexpected and dramatic turn.

The pleasure he felt at her delight faded when his lover closed the lid and pushed it across the blanket towards him.

"I can't take this, Legolas." Jordan said regretfully.

"Amman (why)?"

"Well, it's expensive, and . . . I have nothing to give you in return." She answered mournfully.

"Tisn't 'expensive'; 'tis a necklace." The Elf provided helpfully.

"Silly! I know what it is – I meant that it must have been costly . . ." Jordan answered, laughing. She sobered again and gazed longingly at the jeweled collar.

"Then mayhaps you would consider a trade . . . ?" Legolas countered slowly.

"Fair enough," Jordan eagerly conceded.

"What did you have in mind?" Jordan asked as she reopened the box and removed the choker.

Despite her earlier misgivings, Jordan did want the necklace, and decided that now, unlike when she accepted the Leaf, a fair trade was in order. Legolas did not fear that her over-eager fingers would bend or destroy the delicate workmanship, for despite its beauty, the true silver was harder than steel. The hinges were so cleverly integrated into the design that it appeared to be one continuous band. With an indulgent smile, the Elf took the jeweled necklace from the Immortal as Jordan held her hair away. As Legolas fastened it around her neck, Jordan couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled; there seemed to be a sense of finality when the Immortal heard the tiny 'snikt' of the clasp. Jordan didn't get the chance to ponder it further as her lover spoke, unaware of the woman's thoughts.

"Hmmm . . . this is a beautiful weapon, Melamin. What is its value?" Legolas asked as he drew her Katana from behind the rucksack and examined the carven ivory hilt.

_More than you could possibly know_, thought the Immortal to herself. Her sword is an inseparable, integral part of her.

_Strange choice of adornment._ Legolas thought privately as he studied it. The arched neck of a crested game fowl adorned the ivory pommel.

"Do you have a particular love of pheasants?" The Elf inquired.

"That's not a pheasant – it's a Phoenix!" Jordan exclaimed indignantly as she gently pried his fingers loose.

"Sorry, anything but that. Choose something else." She replied.

"Your throwing shards." Legolas bid.

"Shurikens." Jordan corrected her lover.

"Shurikens. Hmmm . . . on second thought, they are damaged -- " the Elf mused.

"I've got four in good condition! And I guarantee you won't find anything like it in Rivendell!" Jordan protested.

Her mind was working overtime, wondering what she could barter in return, for Jordan knew her Leaf would look fabulous surrounded by the gemstones and silver vines on either side of the loop. If she managed to successfully haggle with the Elf, her limited jewelry collection could very well begin to grow quite nicely.

"This trinket is of great worth. No . . . I must have something to match its value, for it is very precious to me." Legolas said.

Jordan tried to hide her disappointment as she reluctantly reached up to unclasp the choker, but then she hesitated.

"I could cook for you." What she would cook, Jordan had no idea. But, she had to try.

"That is what the kitchens are for."

"I'll clean your quarters . . . I'll do your laundry." It was a major concession on her part, for Jordan hated doing domestic duties, and she sent most of her clothes to the dry cleaners.

"I will not have you labor like a common servant. That is what servants are for." Legolas said stiffly.

Jordan gave him a strange look. Ever since she'd arrived in Rivendell, she'd worked either at the House with the Healers, and most recently, the kitchens. Legolas hadn't protested once.

"Then you'll have to take it back. I have nothing to give in return." The woman said reluctantly.

Though she wanted the necklace, Jordan knew when to cut her losses. Perhaps Gimli and his Cave wouldn't mind parting with a few large diamonds and a ruby or two to make up for the loss of the necklace. After all, the Dwarf did say that the precious stones were considered mere playthings to the hardy race, for they considered something called 'mithril' to be their true measure of wealth.

"I beg to differ, Melamin." Legolas grasped Jordan's wrists and pulled her atop him. The intensity of his gaze made the Immortal shiver.

"What do I have that you'd want?" she whispered.

"Have you not guessed, Melamin?" Legolas inquired softly.

"You'll have to spell it out for me, Legolas."

"Everything. I want everything." He murmured before roughly kissing her.

Legolas rolled the Immortal over onto her back, his elegant hands still encircling her wrists. They were only slightly more giving than steel.

"Your body you give to me." Legolas said looking down at her.

The Elf moved Jordan's hands so they were above her head. Holding her wrists loosely in one hand, Legolas stroked his free hand down her cheek and neck, and then placed a kiss between her breasts. Jordan's breathing quickened, wondering what he was up to. Legolas continued to look into her eyes thoughtfully as his hand kneaded her left breast.

"Your heart I want."

"You have it," the Immortal confessed. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Do I?" the Elf inquired.

"Yes." Jordan answered.

Legolas knew as sure as the stars shone overhead that he loved this woman. Would she love him as he did her? Was it enough? Would it last for the length of her natural life? He would do what he could to hold on to her as long as he could, until the bloom of her youth withered away. The Elf would love this woman until the day he held her in his arms for the last time -- until her eyes closed in death and it was time to lay her beloved body to rest in the ground, in silent, eternal repose.

He would watch her fade as the flowers and the grass; Legolas would endure the pain, but the unspeakable agony her death would bring. . . was he willing to endure that as well, knowing that because of his love for her, he would soon fade as well? Would he fade with grief? Perhaps not, for Legolas knew he loved Jordan enough to fight the overwhelming grief in order to immortalize her memory in his heart, to live as long as he did . . . without end.

"Then Bind yourself to me, Jordan." Legolas said quietly.

Jordan looked at him, not understanding the significance of the Elf's request.

"Marry me, Jordan." He urged again, in words he was sure his lover could understand.

"You're joking, right?" the Immortal asked. Legolas' look darkened.

"You make light of my heart."

"No! It's just – it's not every day I get a proposal of marriage."

"Good, for if you did, you could not Bind yourself to me."

"Legolas . . . Are you sure about this?" the Elf sighed before answering her.

"Melamin, unlike mortals who wrestle with themselves, Elfkind do not. Once we search our hearts and know it is true, it is steadfast and sure."

"But . . ."

"You do not wish to bind yourself to me." The Elf concluded stiffly. This was not how Legolas envisioned the scene to play out.

_Why must this be so difficult?_ Legolas wondered, truly perplexed.

"I didn't say that --" Jordan protested

"Then what is stopping you?" Legolas asked.

"There are things you don't know about me, Legolas." Jordan replied slowly.

"Then tell me, Melamin." He urged.

_'. . . There is a wide difference between speaking to deceive, and remaining silent to be impenetrable.' _

The appropriate quote by the French philosopher and author, Voltaire popped into Jordan's mind. Legolas awaited her answer with a unique sense of anticipation. His heart was pounding in his chest as he waited in suspense. Instead, Jordan closed her eyes and turned her face away. This was definitely not what the Elf had in mind.

_When in doubt . . . don't_. It was a delicate situation requiring carefully chosen words.

"You asked if I trusted you." She cast a sidelong glance at Legolas.

"Why do you evade the question? What needs be all this secrecy?"

"Please trust me when I say I have my reasons." Jordan gave the Elf a hard look. He could see the internal struggle before her features settled into a cold expression. It was a side of his lover Legolas had never seen before.

"When we go to see this Mithrandir . . . if I'm still here, I'll tell you everything you need to know. I can't answer you until then."

"What are you hiding, Jordan? Why can you not tell me?" Legolas asked, close to losing his patience. By the Valar, this woman was unlike any maiden he'd come across.

"Please, Legolas. Trust me." She asked quietly.

_Keep your secrets, for now, Melamin; I shall discover for myself what they are. _ Legolas thought to himself.

Though unhappy with the turn of events, Legolas decided to not push the issue. It was enough for the Elf that his lover wore his gift around her neck. He had no choice but to wait for her answer. More and more, the Elf felt his destiny intertwine with his lover's in Gondor.

In the meantime, beneath the bright hunter's moon, Legolas kissed Jordan until the cold expression melted and the woman smiled once more. In spite of their private thoughts, when Jordan reached for her lover once again, the Immortal and her Prince continued their loving reunion, well into the night, until the stars faded away.

#

Listening to the sleepy birds welcome the dawn, Legolas quickened his pace. He was already late for his meeting with the Dwarf. Cradling the sleeping woman in his arms, Jordan did not wake once. The Wood Elf moved swiftly along the quiet paths; the dead weight of his precious burden, and the bulky rucksack had no effect on his long strides as they ate up the ground. Swiftly, Legolas covered the distance in an astonishingly short amount of time. As he made his way towards Jordan's quarters, the Elf gazed down at the token of his affection. The gem encrusted mithril collar looked right around her neck, the Elf decided, and so did the Leaf that was suspended in the middle.

Up the stairs and across the room he went; depositing the woman in her bed, Legolas removed Jordan's katana from the rucksack and slid it beneath her pillow before kissing her lips, not feeling an ounce of guilt for having worn out his lover in the most pleasant of ways.

As an afterthought, Legolas laid a hand gently on Jordan's flat belly, imagining it swollen with his child. An Elfling.

Reluctantly, the Elf left his lover's side. Taking the fastest route to the common eating halls, Legolas contemplated raising a family with his lover. If Jordan chose not to Bind herself to him, perhaps a child would persuade her to remain with him. A little Princess with her mother's black hair and his blue eyes, or a Prince with his fair hair and his mother's green eyes. No, the Elf decided – twins. Twins would be most delightful. His father, after getting over the initial shock of having a Mortal for a daughter-in-law, would surely love their children dearly. With the fate of Middle-Earth in peril, there was no time to indulge in personal gratification. Jordan Waters had changed that in mere moments for him. For centuries, he had not felt the yearning to take a wife. He not only asked her to Bind herself to him, he was planning their future children!

"Alas, so much rests on our journey to Gondor." Legolas muttered as he entered the Common hall.

Legolas spied the Dwarf at a table and went to join him. Looking up briefly, Gimli grunted and continued to roll up the parchment before affixing his seal on the melted wax.

"So, how are you, Laddie?" Gimli asked. He need not bother, for the smile on the Elf's face said it all.

Gimli chuckled to himself, glad for his pointy-eared friend. Legolas thanked the servant who set upon the table meat, bread and cheeses. As they ate, the Dwarf and the Elf's conversation turned to their pending journey. Apparently, the Dwarf was busy recruiting more Dwarven help to assist in the rebuilding of the White City. It was a daunting task, amassing the materials and skilled artisans. Legolas knew there was no better Dwarf suited for the task than the stout fellow seated across from him.

Gimli was busy rattling off more details to his friend when he noticed Legolas was not really listening. It was nothing discernible, yet Gimli knew his friend well enough as a Dwarf could ever hope to know an Elf, and the Mirkwood Prince was preoccupied.

"What troubles ye, Laddie?" Gimli asked.

The Dwarf was surprised when his pointy-eared friend answered right away. Legolas did not enjoy having his fate decided by circumstances beyond his control. Perhaps they should prepare to leave for the White City sooner than planned. The dread Legolas felt before he left for Mirkwood returned with a vengeance. Something was going to happen -- and soon. He was certain of it. Legolas wished Mithrandir were in Imladris, for the Elf knew the wizard would know what to do. In the meantime, the Prince decided to seek his friend's opinion on a small matter that continued to puzzle him.

"I do not understand why she sleeps with her sword beneath her pillow. It is always within reach." Legolas said.

Gimli studied his friend. It was new, having the Elf confide in him with his . . . relationship woes. Gimli couldn't remember the Elf ever having problems with the fairer sex, for in Meduseld, the maidens were more than willing to see to the Elf's . . . 'needs', but he always refused. And Gimli didn't need to ask who 'She' was.

"Is that wrong? We keep our weapons close." Gimli shrugged it off. He belched loudly after taking a long draught of his ale.

"We are warriors." The Elf pointed out.

"Jordan is a Healer by trade. Why is she compelled to keep her weapon close --- what does she fear in Imladris?" Legolas asked. The Elf-friend grunted.

"Be as your arrows and aim for the matter that troubles you. Ask her," Gimli suggested.

"Besides, who understands females? Their hearts are but deep caverns of secrets. No telling what goes on in their heads." the Dwarf said with a knowing nod of his bushy head.

"Heed my words, Little Princeling. . . " Legolas shot the Dwarf a look.

"Enjoy her charms while you can. The leaves are turning and we will soon be on our way. Who knows what awaits us in Gondor."

The Mirkwood Prince was about to tell the Elf-friend he asked Jordan to Bind herself to him when a servant appeared, stalling the words on the Elf's lips.

"Prince Legolas, Lord Elrond requests your and Master Gimli's presence." The Dwarf and the Prince exchanged glances, wondering what the summons entailed.

"Thank you; we will be there shortly." Legolas replied.

#

The sound came again, disturbing her rest. Pulling the pillow over her head, Jordan willed herself to go back to sleep. The sheets were soft, and smelled like Legolas. Sighing with pleasure, Jordan was about to drift off when the sound came again, this time more obnoxiously insistent. With a start, Jordan realized she was in her bed. Flipping over in bed, the Immortal looked around the room. Was it a dream? Her hand flew to her neck, where her fingers touched the cool metal of the jeweled collar around her neck.

"No . . ." it was real.

"I'm coming . . .!" the Immortal mumbled, touching a hand to her head.

She was so tired. The intimate aches Jordan was feeling provided a sensual reminder of the Elf's thorough and enthusiastic loving. Unfortunately, the Miruvor did not last as long as the Elf; Legolas had made love to her all day yesterday, and Jordan honestly believed the Elf would have made love to her all night until, much as it pained her, she refused to allow him to touch her beyond a cuddle. Jordan desperately needed to sleep -- not that she was complaining. She just needed a little break; slowly getting out of bed, Jordan was not certain she could walk normally.

"So glad it'll be temporary." Jordan said aloud

Gingerly, the Immortal made her way towards the door and pulled it open to find Ceallach standing in the hallway. The Immortal looked blearily at the she-Elf.

"Lady Jordan, Lord Elrond requests your presence in his study." She Elven maiden said. Jordan nodded, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

"I'll be there." She said wearily. The maiden hesitated.

"I believe it is urgent, Lady Jordan." She said.

_Fine. I guess that means 'now'. _ The Immortal thought.

Jordan wasn't in the mood to argue. She would go and see what this was all about, for then she could hopefully rest for a few hours.

"I was just on my way to take a quick bath." The Immortal assured her.

#

Lord Elrond stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out his westward facing window. He had seen the heights of glory during the time of the Elves, dark days and strange times; it appeared the strange times were without end. The Peredhil's musings were interrupted when a servant announced Jordan's arrival. Signaling the Elf to show her in, the woman's steps slowed as she stood within the room. Turning to face her, Elrond returned the woman's greeting and studied her with a thoughtful expression.

"Lady Jordan. Please, come with me." He instructed her.

Gesturing for her to follow, the Ruler led the Immortal to a side door that opened onto a wide, open patio. When Lord Elrond stopped, Jordan's steps slowed. Legolas and Gimli were present as well. Behind the Dwarf and Jordan's lover were two more Elves, the twin sons of Lord Elrond; they were speaking with the fair Elf and the Elf-friend. When Jordan appeared, all conversation ceased as they turned towards her. The Immortal looked at each person individually, wondering why he was gazing at her expectantly. After a moment, the Elves and Dwarf stood aside and watched the woman's reaction. Jordan's eyes widened in disbelief and joy.

"Duncan . . .?" Jordan breathed. The Highlander was there, too!

"Duncan!" With a squeal of joy, the Immortal ran towards her Mentor.

Though his outward expression was impassive, Legolas was taken back as he watched Jordan launch herself at the Stranger. The Dark One caught the Elf's lover up in his arms; the dusty, travel stained folds of his long, dark coat enveloped the youngest Immortal, almost hiding her from sight as she wrapped her arms tightly around the Clansman's neck.

"Jordie! Thank God we found you!" Duncan murmured softly.

After a long while, the Scot held Jordan away from him. The fair Elf moved so that he could see all interaction between his lover and the new arrivals. Legolas frowned as the Chieftain's Son held Jordan tightly once more.

"Duncan . . ." Jordan began.

"Hmm?" the Highlander replied.

The Scot closed his eyes briefly and sighed with relief. Now that he had her back, Duncan was not going to let her go.

"I can't breathe." Jordan whispered.

The Clansman relaxed his hold a notch as he rested his chin on top of his Studen't head.

"How did you find me?" Jordan asked against his chest, content to stay in the big Scot's arms.

"It's a long story; maybe you should go see Joe; I'm sure it'll do him good to see you." The Clansman suggested.

"Joe's here? Where is he?" Jordan asked, leaning back in Duncan's arms. She was eager to see Joe's whiskered face once more.

"For eight days we rode; Joe caught a cold; it turned into pneumonia, so we rode harder and faster. You should have seen him, Jordie. If it wasn't for the Elves, he could have died.

"Where is he?" Jordan asked, anxious and apprehensive. Looking into Duncan's face, she searched his features, trying to gauge the meaning behind his words; she'd feel entirely responsible if their friend worsened to the point of death. Duncan smiled down at her, scarcely believing he held her.

"I'm not sure where they brought him, but I'm assured he's well cared for. You know, if it wasn't for Adam, we couldn't have found you." Duncan said quietly.

Jordan was so concerned for the Watcher that she didn't pay attention to the rest of the Highlander's words. What she did catch was the name.

"Adam? Adam who?" Jordan asked, quizzically.

"Am I that easy to forget?" a quiet voice asked softly.

The question came from behind her Teacher. Suddenly the Immortal felt cold deep inside. She recognized that voice. Even after all this time, she didn't – couldn't forget it. Slowly, Jordan released her hold on the Clansman as Duncan stepped aside; her heart beat a little faster. There was no mistake. It was he.

"Adam. . . " Jordan said quietly as the blood drained from her face.

A/N:

Whew! This was a long one, eh? Well, folks, I still don't have my computer back, so . . . that's not a good thing. You can't know what I went thru to get this chapter posted! Bottom line – this may be it for a while until I can get back up to speed. Sorry . . .! =(

Once again, I'd like to acknowledge my wonderful Betas: Raq, Silreth, SerenaD (who was also a big help w/ch. 24) and of course, Dinah!!! Thank you again, ladies!

And especially you thoughtful reviewers – for those I was unable to personally thank (usually because of no e-mail address) in no particular order:

len, xxx, emma, and sarah! For all the anonymous/signed reviewers, please be assured you really give me the push I need to get going. Thank you , thank you, Thank you!


	27. The Wizard's Pupil

"Methos, The Ancient

He keeps many a secret

Five thousand years' worth.

Speak, O Ancient One

What secrets do you hold near?

Tell me of times past."

Stacy L./Haiku author extraordinaire

The Wizard's Pupil

Not since his earliest memories, when he first roamed the lands, watching the earth in its infancy change and evolve . . . doing his small part in history as nations rose and fell – did the Ancient One feel as he did now. Hollywood with all its technological wizardry could not hope to capture this realm of magic and mystery on celluloid, for the Elven haven of beauty and calm truly was a land to be experienced firsthand if at all possible.

Though told by the One who had been there of its splendor, never in his wildest imaginings could the Immortal believe a place such as Rivendell existed. But it did and Imladris, the Last Homely House, managed to do the impossible by making Methos, the oldest, most jaded and cynical of Immortals, hold his breath in wonder. Leaning on his forearms, the Immortal stood at the lacy railings of his quarters, until the subtle gold and titian hues of the late afternoon gave way to the pink and violet shades of the evening.

"Fairy tales and pixie dust. Too bad this place won't last for long." the Eldest One mused to himself, feeling a twinge of sadness.

The Horseman idly watched the roaring waterfall that was but thirty feet away a while longer and shuddered before turning his bare back on the spectacular landscape falling into shadow. Readying himself for the evening meal, the man reached into the armoire and removed a tunic. Methos held the dove grey garment to the light; as he inspected the Elven garb, the elegant and graceful embroidery shimmered in the warm candlelight.

"Exquisite." The Ancient muttered softly before pulling the Elven garb over his head.

On his way out, Methos took a quick glance in the mirror and tried in vain to tame a cowlick that refused to lie down. With an exasperated sigh, he decided it was a lost cause and shrugged into his overcoat, adjusting the weight of his hidden sword before he stepped into the hallway. The Horseman could not wait to leave Rivendell.

Overly cautious to the point of paranoia, the Antediluvian knew well that survival was not always ensured by the strongest sword arm, but by the quickest wits and the ability to adapt, blend in and if necessary, evade the enemy in order to live another day, another century. For over five millennia, the Eldest walks the earth thanks in large part to decisions that ensure his survival (although many to this day he still regrets). The other factor of the Ancient's longevity is the Buzz. The internal warning heralds potential doom, and unless the Immortal was expecting the Immortal who triggered the alarm, he always chose flight. Others might call it cowardice; Methos, however, knew his legendary head – all the knowledge and power he possessed, would be an impressive feather in a younger Immortal's cap. The Ancient One considered evasion as an opportunity to learn more of the ('til proven otherwise) enemy – deferring the Challenge, until he was better able to decide how to deal with the unknown Immortal. The Ancient One did not reach his ripe old age by making foolish decisions, but by choosing his battles wisely in his time, on his terms. Unfortunately, in Rivendell, there was no rest from the Buzz, and its constant alarm was setting him on edge.

Methos kept to the middle of the open and spacious hallway as he sauntered along, for the lack of railings gave one the illusion of walking upon open air; as he rounded the corner, the Immortal nodded in greeting to the Elves he passed. The Eldest's leisurely strides slowed when he recognized the mural on the wall. Methos' lips twisted into a faint smile as he carefully studied the composition. Depicted in shades of grey and set against a barren landscape filled with sharp, craggy rocks, the pitifully impotent figure sprawled on his back was surrounded by shards of his devastated weapon, yet he raised the shattered sword as if hoping to ward off the monstrous, menacing figure looming over him.

"Or is it defiance . . . ?" Methos wondered aloud.

A warrior himself, the Immortal respected and admired the Man's desire to die fighting. Curiously, despite the fact the sword was broken, it still radiated light, bravely illuminating the oppressive gloom.

"So, this is where it comes from." The Immortal murmured to himself. That was one puzzle solved.

The Ancient's eyes were drawn to the stone image directly across from the mural, also recognizing the shield the figure held in its arms, for its graceful curves were identical to the shield displayed in Gregory's private office.

"I guess it is never too late to learn something new about old friends. Clever old goat." Methos chuckled as he walked around the statue.

Lost in the shadows of the stone image, Methos wondered how the old gentleman was doing back home. Leaning against the statue, the Immortal watched the Elves below glide gracefully about as his thoughts strayed back to that day in the village of Bree. . .

: _: The Prancing Pony_

_The Stables_

_"We've come to take her home." Methos added. Sifting thru his memories, the Eldest knew the twin Elves to be of importance. _

Ah, their names, their nameswhat are they? Elmer and Eldan. No, no it's Elwin and Elmo. . . bloody hell! _Methos thought, keeping his frustration to himself._

_Despite having the Immortal's ability to recall memories long past with extraordinary clarity and detail, after encountering many, many individuals over the years, apparently even the Eldest occasionally had difficulty remembering names; and, until formally introduced, Methos privately dubbed the more serious of the twins 'Tweedle Dee', and the one who held Joe, 'Tweedle Dum'. After Tweedles Dee and Dum had decided that Joe was not a wizard nor that Jordan was somehow trapped by enchantment did they release the Watcher to his friends before they sheathed their long knives. While Tweedle Dee examined the leg of their injured companion, who, like the Watcher was seated upon a bale of hay, their attackers spoke in the musical language that stirred the Ancient One's memory. _

_Fluent in Hieroglyphics, Russian, French, Italian, Swahili, Lithuanian, Aramaic, Arabic, Coptic, Farsi and Latin, Methos' Elvish was a tad rusty. It had been Ages since the Ancient had studied that language, and it required an incredible amount of concentration as well as all his skill to follow their conversation. With a fond smile on his lips, the Immortal recalled how it all began . . . _

_: Merry Old England_

_King Arthur's Court_

_410 A.D._

_Not much was known about him – at least from those with whom Methos had inquired. Rumor had it that the old hermit was in actuality the young King's close Friend and Advisor. Others called him a trickster, a charlatan. Whatever his title, he was challenged by none and came and went as he pleased. When at court, the 'Advisor' hardly left the Monarch's side. Methos could not say what it was about the old man that drew his attention; perhaps it was the fact that the Immortal had caught the King's friend staring hard at him on several occasions. In fact, Methos realized, ever since he had arrived at Arthur's court and laid eyes upon the Advisor, there was not one time that the Immortal did not feel the Old Man's eyes boring into him, watching . . . observing, as if measuring his worth. _

_At first, the Ancient One ignored the looks, thinking the old man was merely interested in younger Men, for the practice of men laying with men was common among the nobility a practice the Immortal shunned, nor welcomed, for Methos had a definite preference for the fairer sex. The Advisor could look all he wanted feast his old eyes upon the handsome Immortal as he wished – so long as he did not touch him, for if the Old Hermit was foolish enough to try, the Horseman was prepared to slay the Old Man as easily as he had slain the nameless thousands before him. _

_Once, when the Ancient had the misfortune to encounter the King's Friend in a deserted hallway, the old fellow's piercing gaze made the Horseman feel most uncomfortable - despite the fact that words had not been exchanged. From then on, the Ancient One took great pains to avoid the Advisor, but that would soon change._

_During a recent Ceremony, as the Immortal stood with the other Masters-at-Arms, Methos' bored gaze wandered over the crowd of finely clad men and women gathered together. It took considerable effort on his part to not yawn; he was not much for ceremony or ritual, but his presence was required. Scanning the faces in the crowd, the Immortal made a mental note to thank the Fates, for he had yet to see the accursed Counselor._

Let him rot in his hovel for all I care_. The Ancient One thought disdainfully. _

_Restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Methos longed for the Ceremony to be done; not only was the Eldest tired from the previous night's carousing he was very uncomfortable. He should not have drunk so much beer without relieving himself beforehand; and, as Lady Luck would have it, the Immortal found himself in the front row. There was no way Methos could quietly slip out from formation without committing a major faux pas. The Horseman was temporarily distracted from his discomfort when the King spoke._

Who is he . . . ?_ Methos wondered lazily as he looked towards the dais._

_Standing just behind the ornate throne was a figure garbed in resplendent velvet of the deepest blue; gleaming silver swirls (patterns that the Immortal would see again in the future) encircled the shoulders and full sleeves before flowing down the chest. The hem of the luxurious material sported the same fluid design. Methos watched in detached fascination as the elegant whorls shimmered and sparkled, as did the sword at his side. As the old man adjusted his grip on his staff, the red gem set in gold winked at the Immortal from the old man's finger._

_Methos did a mental double take. He recognized the staff the white staff. Unless it was a doppelganger, there was only one person who carried such a staff. It was with great surprise when the Immortal realized that this regal person, whose snowy mane and beard was neatly trimmed and brushed (though a far cry from the home-spun clad figure that roamed the King's apartments) was indeed one and the same. Astonished, the Ancient quickly averted his eyes when he saw the Old Man was watching him watch him. _

I would do well to stay away from that One_. The Immortal thought sourly._

_For the duration of the Ceremony, the Horseman doggedly kept his eyes front and center; when he was required to gaze upon his King, the Antediluvian made sure to focus solely upon Arthur._

_Restless with time on his hands and no duties to see to one late spring day, the Ancient One decided to visit the Queen's garden. Methos would often escape to the meticulously tended grounds when he wanted to think. Lately, he had been doing much of that. Thoughts of his days with the Horsemen (though recently abandoned by choice) filled his mind. Curiously, the Ancient One often felt conflicting emotions when he thought of his 'wilding' days. _

_"'Tis time to move on." Methos advised himself._

_Perhaps the genteel and courtly ways of Arthur Pendragon and those who followed him was getting to the Immortal – making him soft. Dismissing the ridiculous notion from his thoughts, Methos bent to smell the roses; the blooms were especially fragrant this evening, and the urge to crush the delicate bud in his hand –just because he could, was so overpowering, it was almost automatic. After a moment, the Horseman straightened and gently stroked the velvety petals. It somehow felt . . . right to not destroy merely because it was within his power. _

_The Ancient One critically studied the flowers; the Queen was fond of roses, and often received slips as gifts from visiting dignitaries, as well as from the King when he returned from his campaigns. As a result, Guinevere's rose garden (most notably the one within the heart of the maze) was said to be quite impressive – more so than the lovely garden in which the Immortal now stood._

_"Seeing is believing." The Ancient One said aloud._

_Though Methos had never ventured within the verdant paths, soon the Immortal found himself standing at the entrance of the intricate hedge maze. It was rumored amongst the Knights and Masters-At-Arms that only the bravest and most noble of men should enter, for those of questionable character would be lost within, until the earth took pity and swallowed them whole. Scoffing at the romantic nonsense, Methos entered and soon lost himself inside the living walls of fragrant yew and hyssop from which the star shaped labyrinth was formed. _

_"Perhaps there is a measure of truth to their mutterings." The Immortal said aloud as he came upon another dead end._

_Because of the arrangement of the blocks, the Ancient One was often forced at various points to retrace his steps. Methos could not distinguish one way from another. When he jumped up, Methos could not see over the tall hedges; the dense shrubbery did not part when the Ancient One attempted to push through the thick growth, nor did it support his weight when he attempted to climb in order to see over the top, for there was neither stone nor bench for him to stand upon. The Immortal did not think the Queen, nor would the head grounds keeper would appreciate it if he drew his sword and hacked his way out. _

_Methos vigorously cursed his sense of curiosity in every tongue he spoke as he fought the overwhelming urge to panic. The path was unchanging – and his shadow now stretched long upon the ground. It would be almost impossible to see his way after darkness fell, and Methos knew the Knights and those At-Arms would rib him mercilessly when they discovered this little . . . 'experience'. Unwilling to admit defeat by vegetation, Methos focused his concentration – pushing past the panic, past the doubt and past the fear that he would not be able to find his way out. When he was about to give up in despair, Methos heard a faint splash. The sound of the hidden fountain enticed the Horseman forward, urging him to find the correct path towards the center of the maze. Encouraged when the sound of the splashing grew louder, Methos' pace quickened as his nose twitched, for he detected the scent of roses. _

_When the Immortal did finally arrive in the center of the maze, he sighed with relief. The flowing fountain stood tall amidst the thick ring of roses. It was with great relief that Methos spied the stone benches placed on either side of the fountain; his tired feet were aching, and he looked forward to sitting for a spell before he attempted to find his way out. Of the entrances that led to the fountain, the Horseman managed to find the true one that led to the center. Walking towards the bubbling waters, Methos splashed the cool water upon his face and neck. Leaning on his hands, the Immortal gazed at his image, distorted by the rippling water. _

_"North, east or south. Which is the way out?" Methos muttered aloud. _

_The Immortal had one chance in three of successfully finding his way out before nightfall, but which one? Frustrated and a touch worried, the Immortal refused to think about it for the moment; instead, for reasons unknown, Methos thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He could not stop thinking about the King's Advisor and the recent Ceremony._

A fine robe and a bath does not change anything. He is what he is: a daft old man_. The Immortal told himself._

_Methos dismissed the enigmatic hermit from his mind. Several weeks had passed since the Ceremony, and the Ancient One refused to waste one more second of his time with thoughts of the old man; the Immortal had more important matters to tend to – he had to find his way out. And after Methos' . . . 'exploration' of the maze, he needed something stronger to drink than water, and the Eldest planned to drink beer and while away the time with the Knights who would certainly be found there. Cheered with thoughts of an evening filled with merriment, the Immortal turned and almost shouted in surprise, for who should be standing directly behind him but the King's Friend himself. _

How can that be? I heard nothing!_ the Immortal thought to himself, completely unnerved._

_While his heart resumed its regular beat, Methos' first impulse was to ignore the man and continue on his way; however, though it galled him to be in close contact with the old man, the Immortal heard himself greet the Advisor._

_"Good even." Methos said, annoyed that his voice sounded stiff and overly loud._

_Against the fading light, perched on his head, the wide brim of the Advisor's pointed hat cast his face in shadow. Gripping his white staff with both hands, the Advisor tilted his head back and coolly regarded the Immortal. Despite his resolve, Methos was the first to look away. The Immortal did not wait for a reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried away in the opposite direction from the King's Friend. _

_"Sir Methos!" the old Wanderer called as the Ancient One was about to step into the eastern path._

_The surprisingly deep voice stopped the Immortal in his tracks. Arranging his face in what he hoped was a confident expression, Methos slowly turned back._

_"I believe that is the way out." the old man said, with a nod south. _

_Methos hesitated; the Immortal was about to ignore the old man's words but thought again. He did not wish to be wandering the maze in the dark. Alone. If the Advisor was lying, at the next earliest opportunity, Methos vowed he would slay the old Man and leave quietly thereafter. No one made a fool of him without paying for it; the Horseman had killed for lesser trespasses against his person . . . and his pride, and he certainly would do so again without hesitation – King Arthur's wrath be damned!_

_"Thank you." The Ancient One managed to choke out as he passed the King's friend, giving him wide berth as he stiffly walked towards the indicated direction._

_What Methos did not see was the amusement on the old man's face, nor did he hear the low chuckle. Angry with himself for scurrying away like a whipped dog in the presence of his master, the Immortal swore under his breath. _

_"Ridiculous. Am I not Death? I'll not be cowed by an old man." Methos muttered, disgusted with his spineless behavior. _

_Once he had taken the southern path as indicated by the Advisor, it was surprisingly easy to navigate his way back – almost as if some unseen force from without the green labyrinth was pulling him. Unfortunately, if Methos felt any semblance of gratitude, it was overwhelmed by his animosity towards the old hermit. By the time he reached the Common Hall, Methos' placid expression gave no hint of his foul mood._

_Amiably, the Immortal greeted the Knights and Men-at-Arms as he joined them at their corner table before the open fireplace, for the roaring blaze in the center of the Hall did little to warm the large, drafty room. Quaffing his thirst with beer, and laughing at the occasional lewd joke, Methos was seemingly attentive to the Knight's highly embellished tales of daring and bravery. However, the Ancient One was in fact distracted, unable to forget the scene in the Queen's garden. Long after the others had left, Methos sat in the hall, thinking._

_"After all the effort of finding the damned garden, I did not even have the chance to enjoy the roses." The Ancient One muttered to himself; the realization did not help his mood at all._

_Methos drained his tankard in one long swallow and calmly set it down on the table without a sound; when the serving wench reached to collect his empty tankard, the Immortal's hand shot out and captured her wrist. The girl's frightened gasp drew his eyes up. _

_"S-sir . . . you are hurting me." She whimpered, though she made no attempt to pull away._

_The Immortal knew he was hurting her; he meant to hurt her. The Ancient One knew just how hard to squeeze to inflict pain without leaving bruises . . . large ones, at least. Absently Methos relaxed his grip but still held her fast; the small bones of her wrist felt delicate beneath his strong fingers. If he wished, he could snap her forearm in two with his bare hands. The Ancient One's gaze slid up; detachedly, he studied the soft mounds of creamy flesh straining against the top of her bodice though worn, was clean, as was the girl. His eyes followed the curling tendrils that straggled from her cap and brushed the tops of her breasts; Methos wondered how long her hair was before he finally looked at her face. He had not seen her before and the Ancient One found the serving maid to be quite comely; she had eyes like the desert, like the sands of his beloved Egypt. The Horseman felt his manhood stir with desire. He would have her, the Immortal decided as he would have satisfaction for his wounded pride._

_Methos stood abruptly, removed the empty tankard from the girl's free hand and deliberately set it on the table; the cruel smile on the handsome Master-at-Arms face caused the serving maid to shrink back in wide-eyed fear, even as it mesmerized her – like a bird transfixed by the serpent's deadly gaze. Her weak attempts to pull free of the Immortal's grasp amused Methos so, that he continued to toy with her relaxing his grip enough to make her believe she could wrench her arm free, only to tighten it once more. Despite the fact that the Hall was beginning to fill with servants in preparation for the evening meal, the Horseman pulled the frightened maid to a shadowed corner and pushed her against the wall, ignoring the dull thud as her head bounced against the wall. _

_Methos yanked the worn cap off her head and let it fall to the ground, smiling with approval as her thick hair fell well below her breasts. With his hand tangled in her hair, Methos pushed the serving maid against the wall once more and lowered his head to savagely suckle her neck. The girl's quiet gasp of pain as his teeth and lips left their mark combined with her feeble attempts to push him away only served to excite the Horseman more as he swiftly undid the ties of his breeches. Soon, his hard length sprang free. Roughly, the Immortal turned the serving maid's head and lowered his mouth to hers; it displeased him that she kept her lips pressed tightly together. A hard pull on her hair fixed that little matter, and Methos was free to plunder her mouth at will; the ravishing of her mouth was but a hint of what was to come. Impatiently raising her skirts, Methos roughly lifted the serving maid by her hair and leg against the wall to open her to him; the maid had no choice but to grasp the Ancient One's shoulders and assist, lest her hair be ripped from her scalp. Methos positioned himself and was about to plunge into her, but paused when he heard her whispered plea._

_"P-please, Sir. . . not here – not like this." _

_For Ages, Methos (with his phantasmic brothers Kronos, Silas and Caspian the Horsemen of the Apocalypse) pillaged, raped and massacred his way across many lands, leaving nothing but devastation and misery behind. The Ancient would do as he wished, and none would tell him otherwise. Anger, swift and hot filled him. _

_As a Master-At-Arms, Methos swore fealty to no one – save Methos himself. Unfortunately, if he wished to remain a member of the Chivalry, chivalrous behavior was required of him – both on and off the field. The trendy and much-vaunted 'code of honor' swept across the land, and was enthusiastically embraced by the Knights of the Round Table (most notably by Lancelot and Gawain). Methos, as other Knights of lesser rank, was still making adjustments to the concept. The Immortal glared down at the girl, considering his options._

_"Bloody hell." Methos muttered harshly as he backed away and looked at the wench from beneath half-lidded eyes. Trembling, the poor girl had no idea his angry words weren't directed towards her. _

Couple of songwriters comes up with the idea of 'chivalry' and the whole world goes to hell_. The Immortal fumed._

_Four months ago, a troupe of traveling jongleurs stopped at the castle, seeking shelter and respite from their wanderings. In exchange for bread, they entertained the King and his court with outlandish stories, songs and skits, giving the court Fool a much-needed reprieve. It was during a particularly grand rainstorm, when the Knights and Masters-at-Arms, accustomed to physical activity were chafing under their forced idleness. After all, you can only sharpen your swords up to a certain point, and the armor was polished to such a high sheen, that the candlelight seemed magnified, helping to cheer an otherwise dreary mood; unfortunately, it was not enough to stave off the rampant boredom. _

_The most excitement of the day occurred when a trifling argument between the lesser Knights almost led to swords. It was then that harmonious voices rose above the din, singing of chivalrous and gallant deeds as the minstrels strummed their fat-bellied lutes and lifted their tenor viols and recorders; skilled fingers and lips plucked from the delicate, expressive instruments chords that reached out and slowly calmed the restless men. _

_"What is your name?" Methos asked._

_"Anaeia, Sir." She whispered; the chit's golden eyes were huge in her pale face. _

_"I am Methos. Tonight, you live to serve me." He said. _

_Once again, Methos wondered why he did not just take her as he wished. She was nothing – just a lowly serving wench. Yet, even as he reasoned with himself, the words of the songwriters came back to mock him. Angrily pushing the 'code of honor' nonsense back in his mind, the Immortal made his decision. Though the Horsemen were no more, old habits die hard. Still holding Anaeia by her hair, Methos curled his hand into a tight fist, delighting in her whimper as her hands clutched futilely at his wrist. With his free hand, the Immortal reached into her bodice and pushed down one side, freeing a surprisingly ample breast. _

_"Very well, Anaeia; kindly inform the Cook I wish a bath, victuals and beer to be brought to my quarters . . . and that your services will be required for the night. If you choose not to come, I will find you." Methos promised._

_The Horseman tested the soft weight of Anaeia's breast in his palm and roughly kneaded it, watching her face as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. If possible, the poor girl's face became even paler, her lips pressed tight against the scream she wanted to release, yet she did not. Instead, Anaeia quietly endured the humiliation. _

_An unbidden image of Cassandra, his escaped Immortal slave came to Methos' mind. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, for suddenly, Anaeia's eyes became Cassandra's. Cassandra . . . blinking to clear his vision, Methos suddenly decided he had sported with the serving girl enough for the moment, and gave Anaeia a hard, bruising kiss before releasing her. The Immortal watched the girl as he reached for his purse. Trying to stifle her sobs, Anaeia quickly covered her breast and picked up her discarded cap. The serving wench jammed her hat onto her head, and with shaking hands, quickly tucked her hair beneath its worn ruffles as she brushed away her tears. Catching hold of Anaeia's arm, Methos roughly jerked her back towards him; the poor girl cringed as the Immortal tucked the silver coin between her breasts._

_"Something to make the Cook more amenable to our . . . 'arrangement'." The Immortal murmured silkily in Anaeia's ear before he released her arm. Shaking her skirts out, the mortified girl fled from the Immortal's presence; Methos watched her go with a smirk on his lips. He was looking forward to the evening. Immensely._

_In his quarters, the Immortal stood before the hearth, staring at the flames as he waited. The three other Men-at-Arms he shared the space with were out a-whoring, and would be gone, no doubt, until morning – if that. The room was not much by the standards of this Age, but Methos did not mind – he had lived under much worse conditions, and the simple room was better than sleeping outside, or in the halls, bedding down with the lesser Knights upon the often-dirty rushes covering the stone floors . . . or the maze. At least inside, it was warm and dry. Perhaps the Horseman was spending too much time with the Knights of the Round Table, for their courtly and gentle ways were beginning to rub off onto him. The previously cluttered surface of the multi-purpose table was now bare; earlier, Methos had stuffed his room-mates' clothes that littered the room beneath their straw mats in an effort to make the place more tidy, all the while telling himself it was merely his token attempt at 'chivalry'. The Horseman was dragged from his thoughts when a loud knock sounded. Four burly men entered, bearing a large tub between them. Anaeia entered last, struggling to carry a large wicker hamper in her arms. With a sweep of his arm, Methos indicated for the girl to set her burden on the table._

_Anaeia slowly set the table and laid out the food as Methos silently watched the servants laboriously fill the tub with steaming hot water; thankfully, one man had the fortitude of mind to leave a bucket of hot water by the tub, and another was set close to the hearth to keep warm by the fire. With their task done, the men filed out, leaving Anaeia with the Eldest. The Immortal leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching his 'guest'. With her task done, Anaeia stood by the table, her eyes never leaving the floor. They remained that way, with the uncomfortable silence stretching between them. The tension was palpable. Methos pushed away from the wall and stalked towards the trembling girl. He stopped before her, but did not touch her._

_"Undress me." he commanded._

_For a moment, the Ancient One thought the girl would refuse when her golden gaze met his in quiet defiance. The subtle narrowing of the Horseman's eyes warned the maid to tread lightly, for Anaeia lowered hers in defeat and woodenly did as told. With some effort, the girl pulled Methos' boots off; it was not long before the Horseman was naked, since all he wore was a simple linen shirt and breeches. Anaeia was smarter than most serving wenches, for when Methos sank into the hot water, she picked up a clean, soft rag and a bar of hand milled soap. Anaeia knew better than to speak unless spoken to, for Methos did not want conversation. _

_The Ancient One stifled his sigh of contentment as her fingers massaged the perfumed soap into his hair. The fragrance of sandalwood and sweet almond hung heavy in the air; it was a pleasant and welcome change from the harsh lye soap the Knights would use – when they bothered to bathe. And, Methos thought, there is nothing quite like having a beautiful woman bathe him._

_Methos waited as Anaeia dragged a chair over so she could stand on it before he rose from the dirty water. It was with some effort that the serving girl hoisted the bucket of clean water high enough to rinse the Immortal off. The Ancient One noticed how her previously pale face was now flushed from the activity . . . or perhaps from something else? So, the frightened rabbit wasn't as indifferent as the Horseman initially thought. Though Anaeia studiously avoided looking at Methos' aroused member, the Eldest did see when she stole glances at him. Anaeia's hands lingered as she ran the drying cloth over the Ancient's body. Beneath her work-roughened fingertips, the serving maid felt the Immortal's lean muscles sculpted from centuries of wielding a sword and wearing heavy armor. When he was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and clean breeches, Methos sprawled in a chair and looked at the maid. He certainly did not wish to look at a bedraggled woman as he ate. _

_"Your turn. And wash your hair." He instructed her._

_Surprised, Anaeia hesitated. A dark frown from the Master-At-Arms urged her to quickly comply. In truth, though she was reluctant to strip naked before her handsome captor (for in truth she was a prisoner without walls); the serving wench was actually eager for a bath the water, though not terribly filthy, was still lukewarm. After another long, hard day in the kitchens, Anaeia was looking forward to using the heavenly scented soap (reserved for the Queen and her Ladies); it was much better than the sand that she normally used. While Methos watched the girl bathe, a plan formed in his mind. As a servant, Anaeia, no doubt, was allowed access to most parts of the castle. She could be of valuable use to him. When Anaeia stepped out of the tub, Methos rose to his feet and wrapped the girl in the drying cloth he previously used. When the serving maid reached for her shift, the Immortal took it from her and deliberately tossed it to the floor, and the drying cloth followed shortly. Holding his hand out, Methos watched Anaeia's bath-flushed face pale again. Swallowing hard, Anaeia placed her trembling hand in the Immortal's. Leading the naked girl to the table. Methos grasped a chair and pulled it out._

_"Sit." He commanded her. _

_Anaeia did as told, though she perched on the edge of the chair, looking ready to bolt if necessary. Methos smiled, amused. She would not get far without her clothes. The Ancient One reached for the covered clay platters, wondering how the slight chit managed to carry the heavy hamper all the way from the kitchens. He uncovered a roasted and stuffed goose, along with thick lentil porridge, heavily flavored with pork, and a head cheese, meant to be eaten with the loaf of white bread; the loaf had odd little holes in the crust, where the baker had chipped off the little burnt parts it acquired in the baking process. The Horseman's eyebrows raised; because of the time consuming and laborious task of grading the flour, only the nobility and the King ate white bread, while the more nutritious dark bread (which was far easier to make) was reserved for the lower classes. Several luscious plums rounded out their meal. Methos piled Anaeia's plate and his with food and poured a healthy amount of beer into their tankards before taking his own seat. Picking up his copper spoon, the Immortal hesitated when he noticed the girl remained seated with her head bowed. Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Methos spoke._

_"Eat." He said. _

_Obediently, the serving maid did as told. As they ate in silence, the Eldest studied the child before him. Though Anaeia ate steadily, she did so daintily. As they dined, still Anaeia refused to look directly at him. _

_"Look at me." Methos said. _

_He wished to see her golden eyes again, but without the fear. Anaeia's eyes slowly rose to his. The Horseman lifted his tankard, and his reluctant dinner guest followed suit. After they had eaten and drunk, Methos was pleased to see the girl no longer looked like she was going to her execution – thanks in part to the beer he plied her with enough to lower her inhibitions, but not enough for her to fall asleep, for the Immortal intended to get his silver's worth._

_"How many winters have you seen, Anaeia?" the Immortal asked brusquely. With her hair still wet from her bath, the serving maid looked younger and somehow more smaller. . . fragile._

_"Not quite four and twenty, S-sir Methos." She replied; her soft voice was barely above a whisper._

_The Ancient One studied her appraisingly before he stood abruptly. The girl was not quite as young as she looked. Satisfied, the Immortal walked to her side of the table and held his hand out once again, noting the way Anaeia's breathing quickened. The Horseman felt a grudging sense of admiration for the girl; though she was powerless to prevent the inevitable, Anaeia faced it with quiet courage. Taking her hand firmly in his, Methos led Anaeia to his bed . . . _

_At first, she had lain on the bed as stiff as a board. Normally, Methos would have merely taken his pleasure and be done with her; however, the Immortal knew, 'twas much easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps it was also his way of atoning for his earlier shabby treatment of her. Whatever the reason, it was with gentle consideration he had not shown a woman since he became a Horseman, that Methos made love to Anaeia; and when she reached for him with unbridled passion and desire, the Immortal knew that his plan would work. _

_One month. One month had passed since Methos had last seen the King's Friend. The Immortal's continued efforts to learn more of the old hermit were stonewalled at every turn. No matter whom he asked, Methos was unable to glean more information about the old coot other than the meager facts he already knew. It was as frustrating as it was maddening. The Immortal believed if he wanted to learn more, he would simply have to ask the King himself, which was definitely not an option. It was time to put his counter plan to the test; the Ancient One hoped the one-month was long enough for Anaeia to come to trust him; after a midnight tryst in the stables, the Immortal decided to find out._

_Anaeia lay contentedly in her lover's arms. She could hardly believe it was true. Along with the other serving wenches, and some kitchen boys, Anaeia had sighed over Sir Methos' handsome face and lean physique from afar. Unfortunately, the high regard turned to fear and disenchantment when the very same man she secretly admired dragged her to the dark corner. When he was about to take her against the wall, the serving maid could scarcely believe he was about to commit such a horrid dee_d_. To her great relief, her plea had reached the Master-At-Arms, and he checked himself. However, Anaeia's fragile hope to be saved from the debasing act was dashed to pieces when Sir Methos whispered a threat into her ear after humiliating her further. The girl had no choice but to comply – who would intervene? There was no one to intercede on her behalf, for the other Knights and Masters-At-Arms were long gone. _

_If she chose to leave the castle, Anaeia knew she would never last on the roads; she would fall prey to the highway robbers that plagued the roads. The Knights had cleared the worst of the knaves, but it was a risk she was not willing to take. It would be better for her to submit to the Master-At-Arms. Relatively new to King Arthur's court, presently Anaeia called none 'friend', save the ill-tempered Cook, who, for reasons unknown, took the orphaned girl under his wing. Though he worked her hard, he was fair, and always slipped her a slice of white bread (buttered, even!), or a chunk of roast meat from the King's own plate, or a glass of fresh buttermilk. When Anaeia whispered to Cook what the Horseman had requested, he had simply winked and smiled; perhaps he would not have done so if she had included every sordid detail. The serving wench's bile rose as she set about preparing for an evening of further shame and debasement. However, the following events could not have surprised her more, for Sir Methos' initial treatment, though brusque at first, gentled by the time she left his bed. So much so, that they were now lovers. _

_It was often whispered amongst the Knights that the handsome Master-At-Arms' skill with the sword was uncanny – that he may be able to best the King's Champion. Whenever there was opportunity to manipulate Sir Methos into a Challenge, somehow the Man-At-Arms managed to slip thru the verbal nets set to ensnare him. It was also widely speculated as to why he did not swear fealty to the King, for Sir Methos would make a fine Knight. Anaeia did not care to solve the mystery surrounding the man she willingly gave herself to; nor did she wish to risk losing his attentions by delving too deeply into a past of which he never spoke. What Anaeia did know, was that Sir Methos loved beer. Unlike most men, her Master-At-Arms was able drink astonishing amounts of the fermented drink before his thinking became noticeably impaired. Better yet, it never affected his skill between the sheets; the lesser Knights loved to carouse with the Master-At-Arms, for no one yet had been able to best Sir Methos in a drinking contest. _

_Aside from that well known fact, no one knew from whence Sir Methos came, his surname, pedigree, or even his age. Moreover, no one had the courage to ask, including her. Anaeia had tasted first hand a slight touch of the violence Sir Methos was capable of, as well as the tender, chivalrous side of him. Anaeia, for her part, did not wish to ever see what she privately called his 'dark side', and the serving wench was grateful she and the Master-At-Arms became lovers, for no longer did the lesser Knights, the stable hands nor any other man for that matter paw her. And though their relationship began in a less than chivalrous manner, the Master-At-Arms proved to be a skilled and thoughtful lover. He was certainly better than her past lovers; and it was in his company – in his arms, that Anaeia forgot she was merely a serving wench, for Sir Methos treated her as if she were a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen herself. He occasionally gifted her with tokens of his affection: a pretty ribbon, a new ruffled cap for her hair, a linen shift simple gifts that were put to good use._

_Usually, after he made_ _love to Anaeia, Methos would tell her stories of his travels until she fell asleep; the Master-At-Arms would wake her an hour or two after, then they would part, until their next tryst. Tonight he did not. He was unusually quiet. After timidly asking her lover what troubled him, Methos surprisingly answered. It was with pride that Anaeia learned that all he wished to know was where the King's Friend stayed when he was at court. That was easy, for Anaeia often had to pass by the Advisor's keep as she carried out her duties within and without the castle. Glad to repay her lover for his kindness toward her, Anaeia told Methos where the Old Man's rooms were. Methos grinned. The knowledge pleased the Horseman greatly, for he made love to Anaeia again with a passion that left her with a smile on her face for two days after. _

_Perhaps it was a mistake – after all, wasn't everyone entitled to make a bad decision or two (or in Methos' case, a couple thousand)? Methos wondered briefly why it was a girl – a simple serving wench at that – knew more about what he wished to learn than all the Knights and Masters-At-Arms combined. It did not matter, for the Immortal now had cause for celebration. Returning from another tryst with his Anaeia, the Immortal accepted an invitation by his roommates to go a-whoring. By the time Methos was on his third tankard of ale, the Ancient One was feeling no pain, and decided the buxom tavern wench was much to his liking. Never mind the fact he did not know her name. He did not need her name for what he wanted to do._

_Outside, under cover of darkness, in between the horses tethered at the post, the Immortal pushed the tavern wench to her knees and freed his erect member. Methos' head fell back when he felt the warmth of her lips around his shaft, groaning aloud as her tongue danced its way up and down his length. Knocking her cap askew, with his hands buried in her greasy hair, the Immortal thrust his hips forward, forcing her to take his full length down her throat. Methos' breath left his lungs in a low hiss while the woman's head bobbed rhythmically as she expertly brought the Immortal close to his release. Before he could spill his essence into her mouth, Methos pulled his throbbing erection free as the woman rose and positioned herself against the post; with her skirts raised to her waist and her legs spread wide, the wench eagerly presented herself to the Ancient One. Throwing her skirts over her head, the Immortal gave the tavern wench's bare buttocks a stinging slap before he savagely thrust his hard shaft forward, burying himself in her slick warmth. The neighing and chuffing of the horses when they smelled the raw, musky scent of sex in the air masked the sound of the couple's frenzied rutting and subsequent release. Taking a moment to catch his breath, the Ancient One pulled his spent member from the tavern wench's folds. Gathering a handful of the woman's skirt, Methos wiped his now flaccid shaft clean and tucked it back inside his breeches. He walked back inside the tavern, not bothering to see if the wench followed._

_After his fifth tankard of beer, a plan came to the Immortal. Unfortunately, so did a vivid image of the old man's face. Methos decided his waning courage required fortification with more beer. _

_"Hiding in plain site – I know exactly where you are now, old man!" the Ancient One crowed to himself._

_After his seventh tankard of beer, long after his companions staggered back to their quarters, Methos found himself standing before the doors to the Charlatan's keep with a belly full of liquid courage that needed release. Fumbling with the ties of his breeches, the Immortal pulled out his phallus, and with a sigh of contentment, relieved himself. The sound of Methos' urine splashing against the stone walls made the serving wench with the impressive tongue skills giggle. Methos shook his member before tucking himself back into his breeches, then set about gaining entry. With his third attempt, the Immortal managed to grasp the iron pull. _

_The heavy door swung open with a soft creak; Methos stood in the vaulted doorway, taking a moment to study the interior. To the left a shadowed stairway led upwards to parts unknown; the Master-at-Arms half expected a Raven to caw, or fly into his face. Stumbling further into the room, the Immortal pulled the wench after him and carefully shut the door with a bang. The first thing the drunken couple noticed was the myriad of colors on the shadowed and otherwise austere walls. Seeking its source, on a long wooden worktables they spied the many racks of phials filled with mysterious liquids in jeweled tones. Beside the rack of phials, were metallic contraptions that held more fat bellied phials bubbling softly over thick, stubby candles. Books of all sizes and thickness lined the shelves against the walls; scattered everywhere were scrolls and stacks of parchment; jars filled with dried plants and herbs neatly labeled lined another shelf. The wide brimmed hat with its crooked point rested on a corner of a large desk._

_A quick glance upward showed the high domed ceiling to be made entirely of glass with graceful whorls etched deeply into the surface. In the midnight sky, the new moon shone brightly; together, the drunken couple continued their exploration of the room. With one foot poised on the steps, the Immortal was about to climb the stairs when he looked over his shoulder to see where his companion was. Drawn to the pretty colors, the tavern wench touched the walls, watching as her skin turned blue and then red._

_"Soooo pretty . . . !" the wench drunkenly slurred._

_The lit candles on the worktable made the colored liquids in the glass phials glitter like jewels. As the tavern maid oooh'd and aah'd over the prismatic hues, Methos' forgot he wanted to go upstairs when a twinkle of light captured his attention. The Immortal's sloshed gaze was drawn to the table on the raised dais, where the full moon's beams highlighted the small object on its surface. Lurching in the direction of the table, the Immortal wandered closer to see what glittered brightly. _

_"Whassal this?" the Ancient One asked himself, peering at the floor._

_Gold, green and bronze sand shimmered on the stone floor in a detailed, intricate pattern; however, the object of the Immortal's interest was more interesting by far. Upon the table, lay a Leaf; its rich, emerald hue was nicely contrasted with the silver vine wrapped around the Leaf. Unmindful of the gleaming sand, Methos lifted a booted foot; the Immortal was about to take a step towards his goal, when suddenly a tremendous crash came from the direction of the door. The Advisor strode into the room, brandishing his white staff like a sword. As for the sword, much to the Immortal's relief, it remained sheathed in its scabbard at the old man's hip. With a fierce scowl, the King's Friend addressed the woman briefly before making his way toward the dais._

_"Leave us!" the Advisor commanded. _

_Picking up her skirts, the tavern wench fled without so much as a backward glance at the Immortal. When she darted thru the open doorway, the Ancient's eyes widened as the heavy door slammed shut of its own accord. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Advisor to be engrossed in his inspection of the sand circle. Methos decided it would be wise to emulate the tavern girl's example and take the opportunity to remove his person from the room as well. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, the Immortal began to sidle (as quietly as his inebriated state would allow) his way towards the door. When his hand grasped the iron ring, the Immortal sighed in relief, certain the Advisor would not know who it was that trespassed. After all, it was dark. Unfortunately, the door would not budge. Pulling with all his might, Methos was unsuccessful. Lifting a booted foot and bracing it against the wall, Methos pulled yet again; it was an exercise in futility, for the door had been magically sealed. The Advisor's next words chilled the Immortal to the bone._

_"I will have your head for this." The old man said conversationally._

_One would think the old man was speaking of the weather; however, the cold, measured tones said otherwise. Methos drew his sword and spun around, only to stare down the length of the Advisor's sword, which was leveled at his throat. Even though his sword was useless, still Methos clutched it. If this was how things would end, the Immortal wished to die well with his sword in his hand. The Ancient One was unaccustomed to finding himself in such a vulnerable position and now felt the same terror he dealt others without pause. It was mighty disconcerting. The Ancient One's eyes were drawn to the sword's blood groove as every cruel act and dastardly deed he had committed flashed before his eyes. _

So this is what it feels like to look down the wrong end of a sword. _Methos thought to himself, swallowing hard._

_"Who are you?" the old man asked thru narrowed eyes. Up close, Methos thought the Advisor did not look so old, but very commanding. _

_"No one special. . . Sir." The Ancient One managed to choke out. His throat was suddenly very, very dry. _

_"What do you call yourself?" The Advisor asked softly. The Immortal hesitated, wondering if he could get away with giving the King's Friend another's name._

_"Speak quickly!" the Advisor encouraged as the tip of the sword nicked his Adam's apple. The Ancient wet his lips and decided it would behoove him to speak the truth._

_"M-Methos, Sir." The Ancient One answered, trying to keep the fear from his voice. _

_After several tense moments, the sword left Methos' throat to disappear into its scabbard as the old man backed away. With an audible sigh of relief, Methos straightened. _

_"Your stupidity knows no bounds – your imbecilic actions nigh ruined months of hard work! Do not think this insult will go unanswered." The old man promised the Immortal with a scowl._

_The King's Advisor deliberately turned his back on the Immortal as he made his way back to the dais, quite unconcerned with the fact the Horseman still clutched his sword. The swirls on the Advisor's robes glowed brightly in the moonlight as the old man raised his arms. _

_"Be gone with you!" The old man said, dismissing the Immortal with a quick flick of his wrist._

How dare he_! Methos seethed inwardly._

_For a brief moment, the Immortal slipped back into his persona of Death, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Taking a step towards the Advisor, Methos hesitated when he felt the sudden draft from behind. Turning, Methos' jaw dropped, for the swirls that graced the robes of the Advisor and the domed ceiling were now glowing before him above the doorposts and lintel. In addition, the heavy door was now wide open._

_"Impossible!" the Immortal whispered to himself_.

_Suddenly, he did not feel quite so drunk. Sheathing his sword, the Ancient One wasted no time in lurching thru the doorway; the Immortal's unsteady steps quickened when he heard the door slam loudly behind him. When he staggered into his quarters, Methos collapsed onto his straw filled mattress and lay wide-awake, listening to the snores of his roommates; cursing softly, the indelible image of the King's Advisor remained in his mind's eye before he passed out. _

_The next day, not only did Methos awaken with an excruciating headache, his bone dry mouth felt like something crawled in and died, leaving his tongue feeling coated and thick; had he been able to, the smell of his own breath would have knocked him out again. Thirstily gulping watered down wine, it comforted the Immortal to know the other occupants of the room were suffering as well, for no one spoke, and all moved about quietly, cradling their aching heads with one hand as they used their chamber pots. _

_The perfunctionary knock on the door had the effect of a battering ram, as the men's clutched their aching heads. The Ancient One winced when the door was flung open to admit a court squire. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the morning light, Methos tried not to moan as the boy loudly announced the King wished an audience with Sir Methos, Master-at-Arms. The Ancient One groaned, for the summons would not give the Immortal a chance to nurse his aching head. Wearing the same trousers, Methos did at least change his outer tunic. Pale and slightly disheveled, Methos presented himself to the King. _

_"Sir Methos." The monarch addressed the Master-At-Arms before him._

_The Immortal did his best to not wince, for the King's voice seemed to echo off the stones and reverberate thru his head. In fact, the Immortal's sense of hearing felt magnified tenfold – he could hear every rustle of the Ladies' silk skirts as they moved about, every whisper was a shout, and the creak of leather and clang of metal was sheer agony. Methos was convinced it was the witch work of the damned old man in retaliation. _

_"Yes, my Lord." Methos answered, doing his best to appear properly attentive._

_"You have served this court well." The King said._

_"It has been my honor, my Lord." The Immortal replied, keeping his head low; while it projected respect, much to the Ancient One's relief, he found the position actually helped his headache. But only slightly._

_"Your prowess is unchallenged on the field, and your chivalrous deeds speak well of you." Arthur Pendragon continued._

_"Thank you, my Lord." Methos automatically replied, wishing the King chosen another day in which to compliment him so highly. _

_". . . so well that your services are needed elsewhere." King Arthur said, speaking louder as he addressed the court in general._

_"'Elsewhere', your Highness . . . ?"Methos ventured, remembering the rumors amongst the Knights that the King was raising his army in preparation of yet another Crusade; the Horseman did not think he would like what the King would say next. _

_"My most trusted Advisor is in need of an Acolyte. I considered at great length who best to fill this need. I was but at my wits' end, when your name was given. 'Twas an excellent suggestion, for who else would have the temperance and skill worthy, but you?"_

_"My Lord, may I ask by whom?" the Immortal inquired, though he had a good idea._

_Methos normally would not question the King; however, the Immortal was not feeling normal. In fact, he was not happy. Arthur Pendragon merely smiled at the Master-At-Arms and continued as if the Immortal hadn't spoken. By the King's words, the Ancient One was fairly certain word of his late night visit to the wizard's keep did not reach the Monarch's ears, else his liege would have mentioned it or summoned him to a private audience. Methos knew his change in assignment was to make amends for the alleged near disaster._

_"You will report to my Advisor's keep, for I release you from your duties as Master-At-Arms while you serve him." Arthur said. _

_Seeing the dismayed expression on the man's face, the King took pity on him, for he could see Methos was not exactly overjoyed. Secretly, the Monarch sympathized with his subject; it must be difficult for a man of war to be so confined. _

_"Do not be troubled, Sir Methos; 'tis no shame in this, and 'twill be but temporary – the glories of battle can wait until a suitable Apprentice can be found; and of course, you may still participate in the Tournaments . . . if your Master so agrees. In the meantime, mayhaps you both will benefit from this arrangement. What say you, good man?"_

_The 'arrangement'; how ironic; Methos almost snorted at that. The Immortal could see no 'benefit' from the King's 'arrangement'. Yet, from Methos' standpoint, he had not much of a choice. Arthur Pendragon was wrong, for another choice existed the Ancient One could simply . . . leave._

_"As you wish, your Highness." Methos heard himself say. Aghast, the Immortal was about to retract his words, but found he could not get the words out. _

_"Excellent, Sir Methos." The King beamed with joy, for a most pressing dilemma had been solved._

_For the Immortal, what began as a bad day just got worse; and his sudden change of fortune just made his head ache all the more. The Ancient One wished the King would grant him his leave so he could return to his quarters and lie down until his head felt better. Then he would allow Anaeia to console him with beer. On the other hand, maybe not because of his drinking, the Immortal found himself in his current situation. _

From hence I will exercise caution when I drink. Methos vowed.

_"Merlin!" the King called. _

'Merlin'. So, the old man has a name after all_. Methos thought. _

_After a moment, the Counselor appeared at the King's side. Had Methos been closer, he would have seen the mischievous glint in the Advisor's blue-grey eyes. Instead, the Immortal briefly glanced at the Mage and closed his eyes. All he wished to do was lie down and wait for his raging headache to calm, but that was not to be._

_"Come, Sir Methos; there is much work to be done." Merlin said._

_With a nod to his Master-At-Arms, Arthur Pendragon granted the Immortal his leave. With his head held high and his spine straight, Methos tried to ignore the fact that all eyes were upon him as he turned and stiffly followed the Wizard._

_The Immortal imagined a leash to be around his neck, as, despite his best efforts, he never quite managed to walk beside the conjurer to give the impression of equality. At six feet four inches in height, the Immortal's strides were long, yet no matter how fast Methos walked, Merlin was always just ahead of him as the Wizard led the way. Inside his keep, the Ancient One looked about, wondering what the place looked like in the cold light of day; it remained the same, minus its intimidating air. _

_"This is your doing." The Immortal accused ._

_"As I said before, your insult will not go unanswered. You will make amends for your idiotic actions of the even before." Merlin said calmly, meeting the Ancient One's haughty glare with a stern one of his own before he turned away. _

_Apparently whatever Merlin was preparing was of so great importance, that a heartfelt, sincere apology did not provide the Wizard satisfaction for the 'near disaster'. _

_"I will do what I must." Methos answered icily._

_"You always do, Thanatos." The Wizard muttered softly. _

_"Pardon, Sir?" The Ancient One asked. The Immortal's Master hid his amusement behind the stern countenance once more as he faced the Immortal and replied._

_"Proceed with caution, Sir, Methos. If I choose to be, I may be merciful, or . . ." the Wanderer let the threat hang in the air._

_"Or what?" Methos challenged; he certainly did not enjoy being treated as a squire._

_"Or I could have your head on a silver charger. Make no mistake, Sir Methos. I am the Master in this Keep, and you will suffer me." The Mage replied._

'Suffer'. Interesting choice of word. _the Immortal thought to himself._

_Merlin soon had his Acolyte doing the most menial of chores. Chafing under the imposition of another's will, it was with great reluctance that Methos took up his new duties. At first, Methos would wait until the very last minute to set about his work, making it seem for all the world that he chose to do as told, and not because he was under another's authority. The Mage believed in hard work, and the Immortal was certainly put to the test; Methos was not allowed to consider the task complete until the Seer thoroughly inspected his work and granted the Immortal his leave. Methos wondered what the old man could possibly come up with next in which to wear him out, convinced the Seer was determined to literally work him to death. _

_How the mighty have fallen! Every day brought a new set of challenges – all geared towards teaching the Ancient One humility, as well as the virtue of patience. In times past, the Ancient One hauled his screaming captives back to camp as spoils of war, where the frightened, sobbing women were to be shared amongst the Horsemen. Now Methos hauled buckets full of water from the well to wash the dirty tools, utensils and other trappings the Wizard used in his 'studies'. Methos went from striking fear in mortal men's hearts to striking out dusty cobwebs and pigeon droppings from the highest rafters of Merlin's tower (while precariously balanced on a rickety ladder). The Immortal grudgingly admitted the frighteningly unstable contraption did wonders improving his balance and reaction time; Methos only fell to his death twice thankfully, the Wizard was not present to see him revive both times. _

_Before, Death swept across the lands mercilessly, swift and certain. Now Death quickly swept dust-bunnies from corners and from behind bookshelves; instead of beating men to death, the Immortal beat the dust from the Wizard's tapestries and laundry. Methos went from cleaning his sword whetted with the blood of Innocents to cleaning the stone floors (on his knees no less) of the Keep from the tower to the stairwell, to the main rooms, to the basement, the Immortal scoured and mopped away the dirt until Merlin was satisfied. War, Famine and Pestilence – the Horseman's fell brothers would have been horrified to know that Death (who emptied purses and coffers as they pillaged and plundered villages) was reduced to emptying the Mage's chamber pot – from savagely tearing wailing babes from their screaming mothers' arms, to savagely ripping weeds from the Conjurer's herb garden. _

_Often, the Advisor looked up from his labors in time to catch his Aide watching him with what one could almost tern as 'keen' interest. Appalled with the knowledge he actually wanted to know what the old man was up to, Methos quickly went back to sweeping dust bunnies, yet he could not help but wonder what the Wizard was doing. The King's friend noticed how his assistant never seemed to move from the same spot as he carefully poured the jeweled liquids from one phial to another and set it over the flame of the candles. _

_Methos could not say exactly when his labors ceased to rankle. Perhaps what the Immortal found most surprising was that he actually began to enjoy his tasks and looked forward to returning to the Keep the following day. As the days turned into months, and the months into a year, the Immortal and the Wizard reached an understanding that evolved into a surprising friendship. Often the old man would leave for days, weeks, even months at a time. Merlin would inform his Acolyte when and for the length of time he expected to be away, but never once told the Immortal where he was going nor the purpose for his trip. When the Wizard returned, the old man always looked weary and drained, and never spoke of his wanderings. _

_It was during one such absence, that while dusting the bookshelves, a particularly large tome fell from the shelves to land on the stone floors with its pages open. Stooping to pick it up, the Ancient One thumbed thru the pages. The Ancient One lived before Mankind learned to write, and had seen the progression of primitive stick figures on cave walls progress to the hieroglyphics of Egypt and the flowing script of the desert nomads; however, the book he held contained ordered writings such as he had never seen before, as well as pictures drawn in meticulous detail on the pages, one such was of a Leaf exactly like the one he had seen on the table some moons ago. Another page held illustrations of a pillar with a round object draped with a cloth, and beings with pointed ears. Frowning thoughtfully, the Immortal closed the book and recognized the elegant swirls embossed into the leather bound cover. They were the same that were embroidered on the Mage's robes that covered the glass dome of the Keep's observatory. With a shrug, Methos carefully placed it back on the shelves and thought no more of it. _

_Not long after, Merlin returned, simultaneously looking both exceptionally weary and pleased as he made his way to the worktable. Carefully placing his worn rucksack on the table, the Wizard gratefully watched as his Acolyte placed a heel of day old bread before him with a wheel of cheese and beer before resuming his sweeping of the floor. Looking about the Keep, the Mage concentrated . . . and with a quiet chuckle, nodded to himself. Other than his Acolyte's multiple unsuccessful attempts to gain entry into his private chambers, nothing was amiss all was as he left it._

_While he worked, Methos told the King's Friend of the latest new of the court. As Merlin ate, the Seer thoughtfully studied his Assistant. Gone was the man who challenged the Wizard at every turn in the early days of the Master-At-Arms' assignment, who carried out his tasks with disdain thinly veiled and a rage barely contained. With every task finished and objective achieved (in which the hidden lesson was learned), there was now a certain . . .contentment bordering on peace that emanated from Methos. Before, the Ancient One would arrive late at Merlin's Keep; now he arrived before expected, and lingered long after the Seer had granted him his leave for the day; on his way out, the Immortal would often pause to study the spines of the leather bound tomes lining the Wizard's shelves. Often, the Ancient One would observe the old Wanderer as he labored at the worktable – even daring to ask a question or two. _

_As expected, over time, the Master-At-Arms proved himself to be quick of mind and shrewd of intelligence (as the figurative head of the Horsemen, Methos was by no means a simple man he was the mastermind and planner behind their heinous deeds). Brushing the crumbs from his hands, the Wizard drained his tankard of beer. _

As gold is separated from the dross, you are ready to learn, Sir Methos_. The Wizard thought to himself_.

_The time had come; now Merlin sought to awaken within his Acolyte the thirst for knowledge the Advisor knew existed within the complex man. _

_"Methos, kindly fetch me the tome on my desk." The Master requested. _

_Methos retrieved the requested book and returned to his sweeping, watching as the Wizard measured out different liquids into a flask and set it above a candle. The rhythmic scrape of the broom's stiff bristles ceased as the Immortal stopped his task and watched in fascination as the clear liquid became a bright flame red, and then turned to blue. Merlin added a pinch of something; the moment it touched the water, purple tendrils fanned outwards until the entire contents of the flask became a vibrant hyacinth color. Poring over the pages, the Advisor did not look up as he added another pinch of something powdered, and the liquid gradually took on a deep, golden hue._

_"What are you making?" Methos found himself asking. _

_"As the earth changes, true magic is fading from the world of men, Methos; we must harness the latent magic that still exists in nature. And give it a little extra 'help'. To answer your question, I am making a decoction." Merlin replied, looking up from his reading with a twinkle in his eye._

_"What kind?" Methos asked, as he propped his broom handle against the table and leaned against the edge of the work table. The Horseman peered curiously at the text the Mage was reading, but could not decipher the symbols. _

_"A very special kind. When the liquid reduces, all that will remain is a powder that causes the recipient to enter a . . . changed state of being." The Advisor said._

_"What do you mean 'changed'?" the Ancient asked curiously._

_"I was just getting to that, old boy." The Wizard replied. "Contingent upon the amount given, of course, 'twill induce One to enter a very, very deep sleep. Unless all involved know the nature of this powder, care must be used when giving it; if a large enough dose is given, 'twill cause the person to enter such an altered state, that it mimics death to all outward appearances, the person looks and feels dead."_

_"How will it do this?" Methos asked skeptically as he eyed the simmering liquid._

_"If swallowed, 'twill take longer to act; if breathed in, the effects 'twill be much faster " Merlin began._

_"Why would you want to do that?" Methos asked, watching in fascination as the thickening liquid began to slowly bubble._

_"Well, 'tis useful in battle, or when in the throes of a fever dream. It saves the body from overtaxing its resources, allowing the sufferer to rest until more . . . aggressive measure can be taken."_

_"I see. . .is there an antidote? " Methos replied; the possible uses of the powder could be very useful; and, depending on the intention, very dangerous._

_"Time. Its effects will fade depending on the amount received, how healthy the person who received it is, as well as the nature and extent of the injury." Merlin answered, studying his Acolyte with a cryptic smile on his face; he could almost see the possibilities that Methos was considering for the soon to be powder._

_"Tell me, Methos . . . do you know how to read and write?" Merlin inquired as he walked to the bookshelf._

_"Yes, I do." The Immortal replied with a sense of pride. Of all the Horsemen, he alone was fully literate. The Wizard studied his Acolyte with amusement and approval._

_"Well, then; 'tis good you are, for I need this text replicated in exact detail." The Seer informed Methos._

_The Augerer pulled from his bookshelf the very tome that Methos had briefly thumbed through. From atop his desk, the old man removed another leather bound binder filled with blank parchment. From a drawer, the Magus removed a pot of ink, a blotter, and a handful of sharpened quills, ready for use._

_"Your next task, dear boy, will be to copy this book. Not one jot or tittle is to be altered or omitted. 'Tis of the utmost importance." The Wizard instructed the Immortal solemnly. _

_"Of course, Merlin. What am I transcribing?" the Ancient One asked._

_"This publication is a true and faithful account of an Age long gone – the history of a culture that did indeed exist at one point in time." _

_"What culture do you speak of?" the Immortal asked; perhaps he would be able to provide accurate details, for he had been keeping journals since before writing began._

_"The Elven culture." Merlin replied._

_"Elven culture?" Methos echoed; the Advisor enjoyed the confusion that settled onto his Acolyte's patrician features._

_"I believe I did already say that, old boy." The Wanderer answered. _

_"Elves do not exist, Merlin by the stars above, next you will tell me that trolls and fire breathing dragons exist as well!" the Ancient One scoffed with a reproachful look at his Master. _

_The Immortal had been around since the Egyptian civilization came into existence; during his extensive travels, the Eldest had never heard of (much less encountered) Elves until he came to England. 'Elves' were purported to be whimsical creatures; some said they were tall and lived under the ground, others claimed they were short, grotesque creatures that lived in the trees. Either way, the fabled creatures existed only in fanciful tales spun by mothers to tell their wide-eyed children before bedtime by the light of a warm, cozy fire. _

_"Ah, but they did, Methos. Is that so very hard to believe?" the Seer inquired with a bland smile on his face._

_"'Tis a bit of a stretch, Merlin. Even for you." The Ancient One said._

_"Well, then. Before you set quill to parchment, perhaps I should begin at the beginning." Merlin replied, sitting at his desk._

_The conjurer motioned for the Immortal to have a seat. As the Ancient One sprawled in a chair, the Advisor reached within his rucksack and withdrew its contents, which happened to be a large globe. As large as child's ball, it was pure black in color._

_"What is that?" Methos asked._

_"'Tis called a 'Seeing Stone'. . . amongst other things." Merlin answered. _

Not another outrageous tale! _The Immortal breathed to himself. _

_Methos' eyes glazed over and the Immortal listened half-heartedly as Merlin began his tale; the Eldest gave the outward appearance of attentiveness as his mind wandered. _

I wonder what Anaeia will bring for supper tonight? _The Ancient One thought._

_There were definite benefits to having a serving wench for a lover, for Anaeia would often bring leftovers from the King's own table, and they would dine as the King himself. With a half smile on his lips, Methos turned his mind back to the Master's tale. _

_"Now, where was I? Oh yes, yes. Not all that you see is as it was. Every now and then One may catch but a glimpse, for much that once was is no more, and some things that should not have been forgotten are lost; none now live who remember it, save One. . . However, there are those who still keep the old ways alive." the Wizard began._

_The Wanderer was a gifted storyteller, and his voice washed over the Eldest like honey. Soon, the Immortal found himself entranced; watching the Mage's lips as they moved beneath the white beard, Methos felt a strange heaviness come over him. His senses felt both dulled and heightened at the same time; with a slight gesture, the Seer directed the Ancient One's gaze to the Stone; Methos felt compelled to look upon its blackness. Transfixed, the Immortal stared at its smooth surface, and only felt a mild sense of wonder as the surface began to swirl. _

_". . . history became legend, and legend became myth, and the truth that was is now but a story distorted and sadly, forgotten. . . " Merlin intoned._

_"What is this . . . ?" The Immortal gasped to himself. _

_Soon he was transported to a realm where fantastical creatures of legend and valiant heroes lived and breathed and fought and died. By the time the Wizard ceased to speak, the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon. _

_"Methos? Methos!" Merlin called. Shaking his head, the Immortal looked at the Wizard with a start._

_"I was there I was really there!" The Ancient One exclaimed, half in wonder and half in disbelief._

_"Nay, You saw but a glimpse. But perhaps one day. . .Now do you believe?" Merlin asked the Immortal with a twinkle in his eye._

_"Aye, Merlin." Methos answered slowly._

_"Good, for the hour grows late, and I believe you are expected elsewhere. Now, on the morrow, I will need for you to begin reproducing the publication straightaway."_

_"Aye." The Immortal answered automatically._

_Methos rose and made his way to the door. After he returned from seeing Anaeia back to her humble quarters, the Immortal lay on his bed, and when he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were filled with wondrous images of the lands, peoples and creatures of the place Merlin called 'Middle-earth'. _

_Seated at the Wizard's desk, the Immortal diligently labored. Because of his fluency in both reading and writing hieroglyphics and the Babylonian tongue, Methos made rapid progress as he copied the Elvish words. Often, the Wizard would come and look over his Acolyte's shoulder and murmur in approval, or caution the man when his strokes were unsteady. It was during a quick break that an idea came to the Ancient One. Rubbing his weary eyes and unfolding his long legs, the Immortal stretched his tall frame and flexed his cramped hand as he took a moment to evaluate his work. Methos frowned, for he was not content to simply be an automaton. He wanted more. _

_"Merlin!" the Immortal called. The Seer was working on yet another experiment at the table._

_"Yes, Methos what is it?" Merlin answered; he held in his hand a glass beaker and paused before adding the contents of the tube he held in his other hand to it._

_"I have a request of you." The Immortal began._

_"Oh?" the Necromancer said._

_"Would you consider teaching me Sandarin?"_

_"Sindarin?" Merlin corrected._

_"Yes since I am having quite a time copying it, I may as well learn to read and speak it, would you not agree?" Methos asked._

_Merlin carefully set down the beaker and tube as he studied his Acolyte. Before long, a wide grin broke out onto the whiskered face. Merlin was glad that his Acolyte expressed a desire to learn the language, for none walked the earth that could speak the noble tongue, save him._

_"I heartily agree!" The Master answered. Now the Wizard could be happy, knowing that through Methos, the Elves, their history and language would not pass from this existence as well._

_By the time the Immortal finished reproducing the flowing Elvish text for the Magus from cover to cover in its entirety, Methos could read, write and speak the Elvish language, for the Wizard and the Acolyte spent their days practicing the inflections, conjugations, word and sentence structure and proper use of the lost tongue. Before long, the men were conversing entirely in Elvish. One day, Methos found the Wizard standing in the observatory, looking out._

_"What is the matter, Merlin?" The Immortal asked; he had not seen the Wizard so deep in contemplation since before he left on his most recent trip._

_"'Tis nothing, Methos." Merlin replied wistfully as he turned towards his Acolyte. _

_The Wanderer's bushy white brows rose questioningly when he took in the younger man's appearance. Around his waist, brushes were suspended from a belt, the design of which was the Immortal's own making. Pointing to the glass dome overhead, the Ancient One answered the unspoken question._

_"I will clear the leaves, for they block the light." Methos answered._

_"'Twill be an exercise in futility, given the unpredictable elements. Why not wait until the sun shines again?" Merlin suggested._

_"Well, since you have not seen fit to cast a spell to prevent the leaves from clinging to the surface, I must do it the hard way, for 'tis unsightly as well as a nuisance." Methos answered._

_"Will you not reconsider, Methos?" Merlin asked once again. _

_The Ancient One mistook the warning in the Advisor's voice as the concern he normally voiced when the Immortal would undertake a task that required him to be more than six feet from the ground._

_"Merlin, you worry as an old woman. I will be done with this before you can finish your cup of tea." The Ancient One replied._

_"Have a care, Methos." The Advisor warned as the Immortal made his way up the stairwell._

_Methos opened the side door of the tower that allowed him access to the glass dome. The wind came and went with bursts of chilly air that pulled at his clothes and mussed his hair; the Ancient One was glad he wore his heavy woolen jerkin. Stepping onto the glass dome, the Immortal carefully balanced himself on the slippery surface, for the rickety ladder was a lesson well learned. It had rained the night before, and the rain collected in the grooves of the etchings, making the already slick surface all the more treacherous. Sweeping away the leaves, Methos waved to the Wizard who was directly below him. With a nod, the Mage waved back._

Merlin seemed . . . sad._ The Immortal thought to himself, remembering the expression on the old man's face. _

_"Nothing a good draught of beer can't fix." Methos mused aloud. _

_The thought of his favored beverage brought a smile to the Immortal's face as he thought of his favorite serving wench. Anaeia had been a balm to him. Her warm, willing body and sweet innocence was something Methos found himself looking forward to of late. Even his time with the Wizard had been well spent. In hindsight, the Immortal was glad to find himself in his present situation._

_"Sir Methos!" The Immortal looked around, searching for the one who called him._

_"Whatever are you doing? Oh, do be careful!" Anaeia called from the ground below. _

_"Anaeia – do you worry for me, my sweet?" Methos called back with an amused smile on his face. _

_Standing up, the Immortal looked down at his lover with his hands on his hips; the wind picked up, and a strong gust pushed at the Ancient One. Though his footing remained firm, Methos wind-milled his arms, eliciting a shriek of fright from the woman below. _

_"Would you catch me if I fell, sweet Anaeia?" The Eldest inquired with a hearty laugh._

_"You insufferable man! If you fell, you would deserve it!" the serving girl retorted after seeing Methos was well._

_"Would you not miss me, love?" Methos inquired._

_"If by your folly you fell and died, then nay. I would not for I will be busy searching for another to share the gooseberry and mincemeat tarts, roast beef and mutton. Cook also sent a fresh loaf of bread and freshly churned butter with the surplus of buttermilk." Anaeia retorted, sufficiently recovered from her fright to sass her Master-At-Arms in return.._

_"You will do no such thing, woman. Look see, I will come down straightaway and make you regret your hasty words." Methos threatened with a laugh._

_As the Horseman carefully turned away, the Immortal spied a large clump of dead leaves and twigs plastered onto the dome's surface; however, it was located in an area where the glass curved down. Taking one of the long handled brushes, Methos squatted and leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand as he reached to dislodge the dead vegetation._

_"Oh, do be careful, Methos!" Anaeia called worriedly, wringing her hands in her apron as she anxiously watched her lover._

_"Nothing to worry about, my pretty; I shall be dining with you shortly, then I will ease my full belly as I ravish your body until you beg for my leave." Methos laughingly promised. _

_The words had no sooner left his mouth when a sudden, strong gust of wind pushed the Immortal from behind. Dropping the brush, Methos threw both hands down in an effort to catch himself. Unfortunately, his palms skidded in the rainwater pooling in the etchings of the dome; desperately scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass, Anaeia's agonized scream as Methos plummeted towards the ground below and the snapping of his neck was the last sound the Immortal heard._

_Merlin sat quietly in his favorite chair, puffing away on his pipe as he waited. The smoke rose up and formed a ring before dissipating. Save for the burning torches in the wall sconces, there was no movement. Another puff of smoke looked remarkably like a dragon. As the Wizard squinted, the wings spread out and the form shifted once more to become a boat, its graceful, swanlike bow cleaved through the imaginary water before vanishing away. _

_Finally, with a gasp, the Ancient One revived. Disoriented, Methos slowly sat up and groaned, massaging his aching neck. Little wonder he did not recognize his surroundings, for the Wizard always kept his bedchamber under lock and key; despite his best efforts, the Immortal was unable to gain entry. Now he knew the entrance was enchanted, with the Wizard only allowed access. In addition to an aching neck, Methos' head felt as if a horse had kicked him; the last one that did became dinner for the Horsemen. _

_"Did I not tell you to wait until the weather was more agreeable? Stubborn man; now you will have to leave." Merlin said. The Immortal looked at the Wizard who was seated beside the bed. _

_"What do you mean? I am fine, Merlin. See – nothing is broken." Methos lightly said._

_Even as he spoke, the Immortal pulled the sleeves of his jerkin down to cover the bruises that would lighten and eventually fade; the deep aches told the Horseman his healing arms must have broken in his fall. When Methos slowly climbed to his feet, his hips felt uncommonly sore, a temporary reminder of his shattered pelvis. The Conjurer snorted._

_"I do not think Anaeia will believe that, Methos. The poor girl saw you fall forty feet . . .and your broken neck and arms. 'Twill be difficult explaining how you are fine after she unsuccessfully tried to stop your hard head from lolling about in a most unnatural manner." _

_Merlin recalled the difficulty he had in pulling away the hysterical woman as she held her lover's dead body in her arms. _

_Wizard and Immortal stared at each other solemnly. By now, word had spread and the whole castle knew about the Master-At-Arms' unfortunate demise._

_"Can you not cast a spell that will turn back time?" Methos suddenly asked, finding that he very much wanted to have dinner with his Anaeia. _

_"Nay, Methos. Some things are meant to be." The Wizard sadly answered, wishing he could make it so; his Acolyte was the best thing that happened to the poor girl.The Immortal sighed heavily; Methos' only wish now was that Anaeia would remember him with kindness. There was, however, one last thing he could do for her. _

_"There is a purse I have filled with gold; 'tis hidden within the false bottom of my chamber pot . . . will you see Anaeia gets it?" The Ancient One quietly asked. The Advisor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional hiding place._

_"And my horse, as well. . . she'll need that." Methos added. Merlin nodded, watching his Acolyte climb slowly to his feet._

_"This is my friend Shadowfax; and he has agreed to bear you to your next destination." Merlin said as he handed the Immortal the reins to the shadowy grey horse. The Immortal looked at the Wizard in astonishment, who smiled in return._

_"I know; now, as we both know, Shadowfax wears neither saddle nor bridle. But for your journey, he makes exception." Merlin replied with a smile._

_Deeply honored, the Ancient One did not know what to say. Turning to the horse, the Eldest bowed his head in deference and ventured to stroke the velvety nose._

_"I am honored. Hannon le (thank you), Shadowfax." Methos said to the noble beast. _

_Turning to the wizard, the Immortal studied him. There was so much to learn from the Old Wanderer, but it was not to be. Anaeia had seen him die, and news of his apparent demise had spread. When Methos decided to leave, he simply left. Lingering had never been Methos' style, yet the Eldest wondered why it was suddenly difficult for him to just ride away as he had done countless times before. _

_"My thanks. . . for everything." The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle. _

_"Where will you go, my friend?" the Wizard asked._

_"Oh, I don't know. I have time to decide . . ." Methos replied with a wry grin._

_Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet._

_"What is this?" Methos asked as he opened it._

_"A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely." Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed._

_Looking down at the King's Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head and nudged his horse forward. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider._

_"Till we meet again." Merlin said aloud; sighing heavily, the Wizard peered into the darkness a while longer before he returned to his Keep._

_Riding into the King's forest, Methos dismounted and tethered Shadowfax before carefully scouting the area. When the Immortal was sure he was alone, he made his way to the gnarled oak tree. Precious little moonlight was able to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves. Counting thirty paces northward, the Horseman's steps brought him to a great boulder covered with lichen and moss. After considerable effort, Methos was able to roll it away. In the shallow depression beneath the stone, the Ancient One unearthed his emergency stash of clothing and gold. With a grin of relief, the Immortal reached within the purse, withdrew a coin and bit into it. It was real. Noiselessly he returned to the horse. As Methos rode away, it suddenly occurred to him that the Wizard had never questioned his immortality. : _

Methos was pulled from his memories at Joe's colorful cursing. While their attackers conversed amongst themselves, the Eldest took the opportunity to check Joe's wound. Removing the handkerchief the Watcher held to his neck, the Ancient One saw that the laceration, though deeper than he initially thought, was clean.

"Crazy bastards. What the hell they think they're doin'?" The Watcher muttered angrily under his breath as he swatted the Ancient One's hands away.

"You'll be fine, Joe." the Immortal said, keeping his grin to himself as the younger man snatched the handkerchief back from the Horseman.

The Watched dabbed softly at his neck wound, grimacing from the pain; it hurt like a paper cut times ten. Of course, it did not compare to having your legs blown off by a land mine, but it still hurt like hell. The Watcher now had a better understanding of how Immortals felt when a blade was at their throat. It was very . . . frightening.

"I've lived many lives; seen and done . . . things most people could not – would not understand." The Ancient One murmured thoughtfully.

"Yeah, so?" Joe grunted.

"So add this to the list." Methos said briskly under his breath before he turned to the Highlander.

Whatever the Eldest was about to say was halted when the Highlander addressed the Elves. The blank looks on the twins' and dark clad man's collective faces almost caused him to laugh aloud; the Highlander turned back to the Eldest for an explanation, but the Ancient One only shrugged. Experimentally, the Clansman continued speaking slowly in French. Methos kept his smile to himself, for the Elves' puzzled expression had not changed. Finally, one spoke.

"You will come with us." The quieter twin commanded. The Immortals and Watcher exchanged glances.

"Pouvons-nous leur faire confiance (can we trust them)?" the younger Immortal asked the Ancient.

"Je ne pense pas que nous avons beaucoup d'un choix (I don't think we have much choice), MacLeod." Methos replied.

The motley group returned to the Prancing Pony and was led by the Hobbit Nob to a private parlor. There the Immortals could speak freely with their new 'acquaintances'. Over another round of drinks, the Immortals learned the name of the dark clad man was Breiric, a Ranger from the North; the more serious of the twin, Elrohir and his brother is called Elladan. As Methos suspected, they were indeed Elves from the realm called 'Rivendell'. Though the Elves and Ranger admitted to having seen Jordie alive, they would say no more. After learning more of the Immortals' and Watcher's quest, it was agreed between both parties that at daybreak, the twins and Ranger would escort the Immortals and Watcher to the One they sought.

Nob led the Immortals and Watcher upstairs and down a hallway. Swinging the door open, the Hobbit revealed a room simply furnished with three (thankfully man-sized) beds. Beside the beds was a chair, a bedside table, each with a washbasin and pitcher, a candlestick, and a large armoire. Rustic, but it did not matter, for they would not be staying long enough to worry about comfort.

"Well, gentlemen, this is on me." Methos said, his gaze sweeping about the room.

"Must be the presidential suite." Joe said dryly, looking down at the colorful nosegays on the beds. The sheets were turned down.

"Big spender." The Highlander commented.

Methos smiled and made for the bed closest to the window. His attention was drawn back when the Highlander cleared his throat.

"Oh, yeah . . . here you go." Methos gave the little fellow a silver coin, which Nob clutched tightly, his tiny face beaming with joy as he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

"If you need anything, sir, I'll be helpin' you." Nob said eagerly.

"I'll remember that." Methos said, watching the Hobbit close the door

"You were robbed, Old Man. I don't see any mints on the pillows." Joe said with a smirk.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Methos?" Duncan asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I get first dibs on the restroom." Methos replied with a grin. His expression became serious as he studied the Clansman.

"I think you already know." The Eldest added before the Watcher spoke up and before the Highlander could reply.

"Well, I don't. What the hell is going on here, anyways?" Joe asked.

"We're not in France anymore, Joe." Methos replied; the smile in his eyes belied his bland tone.

"Oh, really? I was beginning to think there was something different about this place." The Watcher said sarcastically, feigning surprise.

"The attack in the forest should've tipped me off. No, no – wait! Getting my neck sliced by Mr. Spock should've given it away where the hell are we anyways!"

"More like 'when are we', Methos." The Highlander added.

"I don't know; this place is about 2,000 years before my time." The Ancient One replied with total honesty as he turned to leave.

"Where you going?" Duncan asked.

"To take a leak. Coming?" Methos rejoined smoothly.

"I want answers, Methos." The Highlander said.

The Ancient One was tired. Tired of being held suspect for unexplained events, for his motivations always being questioned. Reining in his irritation, he turned back towards the younger Immortal and answered.

"Your very expensive, very accurate watch stopped, MacLeod. Our cell phones do not work. There is no electricity here. We're not in France anymore, Highlander."

"I already know that, Methos; what I want to know is how did you know they could help us?" Duncan asked stonily. Tired and ready to collapse onto the bed, Methos looked at the Watcher.

"He's smarter than he looks, Joe." The Eldest commented sarcastically before turning back to the younger Immortal.

"I did not. I still do not. It was just a lucky guess." The Ancient One replied.

"Lucky guess, my ass!" Joe snorted, ignoring the exasperated look from the Antediluvian. Somehow the Watcher didn't think the Eldest was being entirely forthcoming with the truth.

"You know, you knowing everything gets to be a huge pain in the ass." The Highlander said.

"I don't know everything . . . just a lot of things." The Eldest clarified.

"And what about all this? Why didn't you say something before?" Duncan prodded.

"As I said before: some things are meant to be. Others need to be played out." Methos replied, still not looking at the younger Immortal.

"You sure can be a big pain in the ass. Especially when you think you're right." Duncan said.

"Funny, I could say the same about you." The Eldest countered.

"What – that I'm right?" the Clansman retorted.

"No, that you're a big pain in the ass." Methos answered glibly.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to laugh?" the Highlander returned.

"This is the part where I answer nature's call without further interruption, MacLeod – unless, of course, you wish to continue this conversation as I take care of business – and if you do, I insist that you respect me in the morning " Methos said.

"Settle down, children and play nice in the sandbox." Joe interrupted.

The Highlander shot his Elder a dark look before sitting on his bed. Testing the firmness of the mattress, Duncan snatched the nosegay from the pillow and buried his nose in it. The Ancient One turned back.

"I suggest we rest while we can. Morning will come soon enough, and we ride out first light.":

Pushing away from the shadowed alcove, the Immortal made his way down the stairs.

"Was that only eight days ago?" Methos wondered. It never ceased to amaze him how so much can happen in so little time.

"So many memories . . ." Methos muttered to himself.

The Ancient One's steps brought him outside to an semi-private alcove. A carved bench was conveniently placed where one could meditate as one looked out towards the many waterfalls, or watch the comings and goings of those within the building. Methos took a seat and allowed his thoughts to wander again, this time to his and his companions' arrival in Rivendell. . .

_: Bone weary, the Horseman stretched; reaching beneath his overcoat, Methos massaged his aching bum. He could use a hot soak right about now, for it had been millennia since he had ridden at a fast, hard pace. Thankfully, his riding skills were not as rusty as his Elvish._

There are some things you just do not forget how to do. the Ancient One thought to himself.

_The Ancient wondered how the Highlander was faring; apparently the younger Immortal felt the same aches, for Duncan remained standing. As for the Watcher, upon their arrival in a wide open courtyard, the Immortals silently watched as a beautiful she-Elf with chestnut brown hair seemingly glided towards them; eight male Elves were behind her, each bearing a stretcher, upon which the feverish Watcher was placed and swiftly borne away to parts unknown. Dismounting awkwardly, the limping, ashen-faced Ranger was helped onto the other stretcher and taken away as well. About to follow their friend, the Immortals came to a halt when the she-Elf, whose name Elrohir informed them was Læurenthail, raised a slender hand. After assuring the Men their friend would be well cared for, the maiden turned and left without a backward glance._

_Methos and the Highlander glanced at one another before Elrohir indicated the Immortals should follow him. As the Ancient and the Chieftain's Son followed the Elf, they looked around, returning the curious glances of the Rivendell Elves who paused to stare at the Outlanders. The Immortals were taken to one of the highest structures perched on the steep cliff side, where they were instructed to wait. Apparently, the Eldest and the Highlander were not considered a threat, for there was no other Elf in sight; yet Methos knew that unseen eyes watched their every move. It would be foolish to assume otherwise. Left alone, the Highlander fixed his Elder with a look that spoke volumes. Crossing the boundaries between realms and realities, Methos knew they must be doubly cautious, since he and his companions were out of their natural element. _

"_Why are we here, Methos?" Duncan asked in a low voice._

"_Because the Half-Elf should be able to help us, MacLeod." Methos said, walking the length of the balcony._

"_Where did you learn to speak their language?" the Clansman asked._

"_In England." The Horseman replied with a smile. "Maybe I'll tell you about it one day, pup." He turned away before the Highlander could ask another question._

_The Ancient One studied the architecture with an appreciative eye. Nature's fair hand shrouded the Elven haven in beauty; the mist rising from the many waterfalls caught the brilliant fingers of light reaching over the graceful gabled roofs and the towers of Rivendell, bending and refracting the beams into numerous rainbows that danced above the rushing waters in a stunning bloom of light and color. _

"_Adam . . ." The Highlander called to the Eldest when the twins reappeared, one on either side of a regal Elf, whom they bore a strong resemblance to._

"_My Lord, this is Adam, Son-of-Pier and Duncan of Mack Loud's Clan; Joe, Son-of-Daw and the Dúnedain were brought to the Healer." Elrohir addressed the one named Elrond. _

_After the introductions were made, the Elves withdrew to a more discrete distance and spoke amongst themselves as the Immortals waited._

"_Que disent-ils (what are they saying)?" Duncan asked the Eldest._

"_Je ne sais pas (I don't know); Je ne peux pas entendre tout le lui (I can't hear all of it). En outre, qu'importe-t-il (Besides, what does it matter)? L'une ou l'autre manière, nous n'obtiendrons pas loin sans leur aide (we won't get far without their help)." Methos replied before he turned away once more._

_Gazing out at the many waterfalls and lower structures, Methos looked out from the aerie; the researcher in him marveled at Rivendell's structures. Skilled in basic archaeology, hieroglyphics, Cuneiform and Phoenician, this mystical culture fascinated the Immortal, for the Ancient One could see faint traces of Elvish influence in the ancient cultures. _

_The Eldest turned back, about to comment to the Highlander when he noticed two individuals coming towards them. Methos watched with interest as another Elf joined them; this one was blonde where the twins were dark, and at his side was a stout fellow, built like a barrel, whose gruff manner matched his outward looks perfectly. Although Methos knew who they were, he gave no indication. This time, it was Elladan who performed the introductions. Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm and Gimli, son of Glóin exchanged brief glances when the Highlander and the Eldest were introduced. Methos noticed that the blonde Elf's gaze lingered on the Highlander, as if sizing him up. _

So much for a small, intimate reunion. the Ancient One thought wryly to himself. _Methos' attention was diverted when the Ruler addressed the Ancient One._

"_Lle quena i'lambe tel' Eldalie (do you speak Elvish)?" Lord Elrond asked the Eldest._

"_Farn henia, hîr nín (enough to understand, my Lord)." Methos replied._

"_Mankoi naa lle sinome (why are you here)?" Lord Elrond asked the Ancient One._

"_We search for a Woman. His kin." Methos answered with a nod towards the Highlander. _

_The Peredhil turned to the Highlander and studied him thoughtfully. Duncan couldn't help but feel he was being probed as he steadily returned the Ruler's gaze. With a murmured word, Lord Elrond excused himself. When a servant came and approached the Ruler, whispering into the Peredhil's ear. When next he appeared, Elrond had in tow the woman the Highlander thought was lost but was found. Methos could not help but feel slightly nervous as he, along with the others silently watched the reunion of the Highlander and his Student. _

_The Ancient One wondered about the reception he would receive, for the last time he and Jordan parted, they weren't exactly on the best of terms_

"_How did you find me?" Jordan asked excitedly_.

"_. . . if it wasn't for Adam, we couldn't have found you."_

_"Adam? Adam who?" Jordan asked._

_"Am I that easy to forget?" Methos asked, watching Jordan's reaction. _

_When her eyes met his, the Ancient One pursed his lips and resigned himself to Jordan's less than enthusiastic reaction not that he expected her to greet him in the same manner as she did the Highlander._

_With a pointed look at his sons, Lord Elrond discrete withdrew his presence; after a brief, concerned look at the Mirkwood Prince, the Rivendell Princes followed their father's example as well. : _

"You neglected to mention how quickly time passes here, Merlin." The Eldest said aloud.

With a start, the Ancient One realized the torches had been lit against the darkness as he walked in his thoughts. Methos looked up in time to catch a glimpse of a dark head with long hair. Quickly, the Immortal stood. The Ancient One was about to call out to the lady, but the words froze on his lips. She was too tall to be her, and the hair was dark brown, not black – and the ears were pointed. Laughing silently at himself, Methos jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets and suddenly realized that he very much wanted to know where matters stood between he and Jordan. And he meant to find out; the Ancient One had waited long enough. Fortunately, he was a patient man, and the Immortal would wait until the perfect opportunity presented itself. The Highlander was not the only one who had come for Jordan Waters.

A/N:

This is for all the Methos fans out there! FINALLY, Methos had his say. And can you believe he's still not done? Stacy, you're right – I think the other characters are 'bout ready to toss him to the Orcs/Uruks!

Methos, Methos, METHOS! Weren't any of you wondering how he learned to speak Elvish in this lifetime? Hopefully this answered that question. Some of you out there may notice the Elvish has bounced between 'Grelvish' and Sindarin (courtesy of Tara – thank you!); where it suits the story, I'll probably use both – unless someone out there fluent in Sindarin will be kind enough to translate text for me!

Once again, for all the Purists out there who may have issue with my version of Arthur/Guinevere/Merlin (or any other character involved), this story is purely for fun. Fun and fun only.

Don't worry, the other characters will have their 15 minutes of fame. The story isn't over . . . yet!

**Chivalry** - 1. with a lower case "c," the attitude and standard of behavior expected of all members of the SCA 2. with an upper case "c," a term referring to the Order of the Chivalry, comprised of Knights and Masters-at-Arms

Special thanks to

my wonderful Betas: Raq, Silreth (and thank you, Silreth for pointing me to 'Tara's Sindarin Phrasebook'), and Dinah!

BelasVoice for being you. You were there rooting me on since Jordie's early days till the present – who'd a thought I'd still be thankin' you 26 chaps., later!

Stacy L. for her Haiku and encouragement! Surprised to see your work featured in this chapter? Don't be – its' excellent! Wait do you hear that! The drum beat's changed – quick! Hand me your stick so you can break out w/the tassels!

KaoticBlue, annonomous, TheBookWorm & sarah – thank you for your enthusiasm! I'm just sorry I can't write it fast enough for you! ) Believe me, I wish I could! Please don't give up on me!

aimless-37: when can I read your stuff?

len: I hope you didn't mind this longer chapter!

Anna, Michelle: Thank you again for your comment/review(s); I'll have to go back and check and see about the " 'thru' vice 'through'".

Thank you to EVERYONE who has been following this story, and continues to do so blessings heaped up you if you've reviewed (signed/anonymous) as well! I always enjoy reading what you think about the story.

I wish I could crank out the chapters quickly; as you can see, I'm not. Why? Real life tends to interfere, and lately, more than I like. If there's anyone willing to donate a million dollars towards my living expense(s) so I can write 8hrs/day 7/24 until this story is completed let's talk! And, since I realistically don't see that happening, on to the bad news: I'm taking time off from writing to take care of some real-life things I've put on hold.

Bottom line: because I need to take care of 'stuff', I'll update when I can; unfortunately, I can't give anyone out there an estimated time/date – just that it'll happen when it happens. My apologies to you gentle readers. Believe me, Jordie's story is far from over. Bad for me, good for her.

In the meantime, Happy Easter to those who celebrate it!


	28. Shadows of the Past

Disclaimer: I think we all know the routine by now, as well as who the recognizable characters belong to; except for her Jordan Waters is mine, mine all mine!

_Knew the signs  
Wasn't right  
I was stupid for a while  
Swept away by you,  
And now I feel like the fool. _

So confused, my hearts bruised,  
Was I ever loved by you?

Out of reach, so far,  
I never had your heart,  
Out of reach, couldn't see,  
We were never meant to be.

Catch myself from despair,  
I could drown if I stay here,  
Keeping busy every day,  
I know I will be okay.

But I was ?  
So confused, my hearts bruised,  
Was I ever loved by you?

Out of reach, so far,  
I never had your heart,  
Out of reach, couldn't see,  
We were never meant to be.

So much hurt, so much pain,  
Takes a while to regain what is lost inside,  
And I hope that in time, you'll be out of my mind.  
I'll be over you.

But now I'm. . . .  
So confused, my hearts bruised,  
Was I ever loved by you.

Out of reach, so far,  
I never had your heart,  
Out of reach, couldn't see,  
We were never meant to be.

Out of reach, so far,  
You never gave your heart,  
In my reach, I can see,  
There's a life out there for me.

_Out of Reach/Gabrielle_

Shadows of The Past

Spencer Manor

Northern England

Near-dawn

Some people collect fine wines, miniature perfume bottles, or salt and peppershakers but not him. He sat unmoving in the semi-dark, as his eyes roamed over his inestimable literary collection. The Immortal knew the exact location of each title; many of the classic volumes lining the dark shelves were first edition prints signed by the author. The more fragile, rare books (several of which dated back to when the printing press first came into existence) were housed in the Manor's basement, sealed in their protective cases safe from sunlight and ultraviolet light in the special custom-designed, humidity controlled environment. He also had a separate room that housed his collection of swords; the Halcyon's sword collection had grown over the centuries. After every Challenge won, the victor usually kept the defeated's weapon. Some he gave to his Students to use as their first weapon, the more sentimental or unique, unusual blades he kept for himself. Caine's own preferred, much-used weapon of choice was a gift from his former Teacher – and at this very moment, the Halcyon wished he could beat Methos black and blue with it. Caine stood and walked towards the large, picture window.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . _

The Immortal listened to the monotonous cadence of the chronometer as it beat at half-second intervals. The sound was excessively loud in the peaceful room. All was still inside the house – and for the first time in three weeks, outside as well. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied the full moon hanging low in the indigo sky before shifting his timeless gaze to the sheathed sword propped against his desk. Since the Ancient One's departure, Caine Spencer's sleeping pattern (amongst other more pleasant pursuits), was interrupted on a dismayingly regular basis, making the normally even-tempered Immortal quite irritable. Stifling another wave of annoyance, the Halcyon returned to his large, executive styled leather chair and sat down.

Caine appreciated anew what he had previously taken for granted – anonymity (such as it was) within the Immortal community. With the Highlander and the Eldest out of town much to the Halcyon's great displeasure, his pleasantly predictable life had literally been turned upside down; the Spencer's relatively peaceful existence had been disturbed with exasperating, maddening frequency. New Immortals, eager to test their skills, had been skulking about, drawn to the stately Manor by the Second One's presence and the chance for an incredible Quickening. Fortunately for him, Caine did not reach his age by finishing second in a Challenge, and with every Quickening received, the Halcyon appreciated life all the more. With a low growl of frustration, the Immortal flipped open his mobile phone and hit the speed dial once again.

_"The number you have reached is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try again." _The digitized voice repeated the same message he'd heard once too often.

"Damn it, Adam – you were supposed to be back by now!" the Immortal groused to himself.

The Halcyon had tried all the contact numbers the Eldest had given him, but with the same result – that damned, standardized response. Yawning, Caine rubbed his eyes in frustration before punching the 'end' button on his mobile phone. Tossing it onto the desk, the Halcyon cradled his face in his hands and mentally ran through his contact list, wondering if he'd misdialed or memorized the incorrect numbers.

Caine picked up his mobile phone again. He was about to enter another number, when he paused and reached out with his senses . . . searching. It was a valuable aspect of the Quickening that Methos had shown him three thousand years ago, and constantly tested him in its use, until it was second nature. If he so desired, with a twinkle of a thought, the Second One could locate another Immortal (provided they were within his range) – in fact, Caine could tell what direction the other Immortal was located, and how far (if he or she was moving) give or take a few meters. He was in the process of teaching it to Meredith. The Second One took comfort in his wife's presence as he sensed her in the house. Closing his eyes, the Halcyon leaned his head back, relaxed in his chair, and listened to the chronometer continue to mark time's passing in its steady rhythm. Before long, the Immortal began to doze off, the mobile phone forgotten in his hand. Suddenly, Caine's chair was pulled back and swiveled around, before a familiar weight straddled his lap.

"Darling, you were gone when I woke up," the smoky voice whispered the gentle remonstration.

"My most abject apologies, my lady." Caine gallantly murmured in reply; he tilted his head back to better look at the speaker.

Running his hand through her soft, sleep-tousled hair, the Halcyon studied his wife's eyes; her cornflower blue eyes were luminescent in the low light. The younger Immortal's black hair and smattering of golden freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks made her look much younger than her seven hundred and fifty years.

"Did I tell you how much I love you?" Caine asked with a lopsided smile.

"I prefer you show me, Darling." The Immortal pouted; plucking the phone from her husband's hand, the woman tossed it back onto his desk.

Meredith wrapped her arms loosely about the Halcyon's neck and shifted in a way that never failed to elicit a response. Caine wisely took his cue from his wife; the Second Oldest loosened the ties of his wife's robe and parted the thick terry cloth before slipping his hands inside. The delicious scent of mimosa and sleep surrounded the Halcyon. Sliding his hands up her ribcage, Caine lightly kissed every inch of warm, silky flesh he encountered, before filling his hands with the wonderful weight of her breasts. Swiveling the chair towards the desk, Caine swept a pile of papers off the polished cherry wood surface and chuckled softly at his wife's pleased expression. Slipping the robe completely off Meredith's body, the garment fell to the floor as the Halcyon stood and deposited his wife onto his desk; he proceeded to show his wife just how much he wanted her, apologizing in a very pleasurable way for absenting himself from their warm bed. Caine left no doubt in his Immortal wife's mind as to the sincerity of his regret.

"Mmmmm. . . that was nice." Meredith said with a satisfied glow on her face; the younger Immortal lazily watched her husband dress after their extended morning shower.

"What was, darling?" the Halcyon asked, meeting her eyes in the mirror as he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

"The stairs. . . how deliciously naughty of you, Caine. We could have been discovered." The younger Immortal said with a soft giggle.

Pulling on his overcoat, Caine adjusted the collar and looked at his wife; knowing her naked body was snuggled under the covers of their warm bed did not make leaving quite so easy.

"May I remind you, Madam, that this home is aptly named 'Spencer Manor'. Therefore, I may do whatever I wish to you, whenever I wish it, and most certainly wherever I wish to do it. And if the help want to stay on, they'll keep mum about it. " despite his stern voice, in the mirror, Caine leered at his wife, and was rewarded with her low, sultry laugh.

"Reciprocity . . . ?" she asked

"Most certainly." The Second Oldest replied as he turned to face her.

"Must you go, Caine?" the younger Immortal pouted, doing her best to entice her husband back to their bed.

"Yes, Merry; I need to check with Gregory about Adam." He replied. "What are your plans for the day, my love?" Caine asked.

"There are spring hangings in the attic I wish for James to air out. I would like to decorate the house for the season." Meredith replied, snuggling deeper into the bed. Caine knew his wife would be asleep again shortly after he left.

Normally, the Halcyon would not be overly concerned with leaving Meredith alone; however, the older Immortal's gut instinct told warned him to not leave her behind. Though constantly surprised with his wife's abilities with the blade (after all, after their marriage, he taught her most of what she knew), Caine did not wish to leave Meredithno matter how good she was exposed to the dangers of frequent Challenges; it was terrible, watching helplessly from the sidelines as she fought, filled with quiet terror that this Challenge might be her last. He could not interfere – the Rules of the Game forbade it; he could only comfort himself with the promise that, should she be slain before his eyes, her Challenger would soon follow.

It was a vow he would keep at all cost, for he was unable to do the same for his dear, departed first wife, Eleanor, who was killed by another Immortal. There was no honor in her death, for Cyrus, Caine's bitterest enemy (and the Immortal with whom the Halcyon had played 'hunter and hunted' with since 2156 B.C.), murdered his cherished Eleanor. Though it was not the first time the bastard had killed someone dear to the Second One, it would be the last time. It had taken time, but the Halcyon avenged Eleanor and all others who had fallen under his enemy's blade centuries later, when he took Cyrus' head; unfortunately, the Quickening of that encounter sparked a blaze in the pub he had been in moments before; unchecked, the fire spread to the nearby bakeshop of Thomas Farynor; it would be remembered by generations following as the historic London fire of 1666, and the Halcyon saw no need to correct the history books.

"Come with me, Merry. We'll stop by Gregory's, then have tea at Harrod's, and spend the rest of the day shopping . . . " the Halcyon's words trailed off as he watched his wife throw back the covers and race to the loo.

Shopping never failed to get his lovely wife out of bed quickly; Caine smiled to himself. The sooner their day began, the sooner he could (hopefully) learn better when to expect Methos' return.

Arda's Treasures

Paris, France

The silver bell poised above the entryway jangled merrily as the door swung open and then closed. Its purpose was unnecessary for two individuals within. Long before the Halcyon entered, the thrumming hum of the Buzz alerted the Immortals to the other's presence. Ducking into the shoppe, the Halcyon raked his fingers through his tawny hair as his eyes searched the room. Caine's gaze lingered briefly over the unsuspecting patrons, his posture relaxed. He disregarded each individual after a mere glance, as the Mortals delved through the unique wares, until his eyes unerringly rested upon the one who was his kind. Jacqueline held her breath as she stared back at the Immortal framed in the doorway. Though he appeared young, the Buzz told the Frenchwoman that the Immortal before her was old – much, much older than her . . and very strong.

It was the second time she laid eyes upon Caine; the first time Jacqueline had seen the Halcyon, she did not give the blonde Immortal a second thought, for the woman had been distracted and overwhelmed by the combined strength and intensity of the Buzz of the Immortals preceding him. Jacqueline couldn't make that mistake twice; now that the Halcyon was alone, the Frenchwoman clearly felt the irresistible potency of Caine's Buzz.

_All that power, within my reach . . . _Jacqueline thought hungrily to herself.

She gave herself over to the sensation that raced down her spine and extended through her arms. Her palms itched as she longed to grasp her sword and taste the raw power encapsulated within the man at the entryway. There was no doubt in the Frenchwoman's mind, that the older Immortal's Quickening would be well worth the Challenge, but Jacqueline was no fool. She was not ready to take on someone of the Halcyon's strength and caliber unless she was to somehow get him to lower his guard.

Perhaps she could entice the handsome, fair-haired one into a tryst, wait till he was vulnerable, and then take his head like she did with all the others. Seduce and slay; though terribly unimaginative, it was one of the oldest tricks in history and it was her tried and true method of acquiring Quickenings. The idea appealed to the Frenchwoman with every passing moment. Monsieur Pierson and Monsieur MacLeod, and now Monsieur Spencer the three Immortals were handsome and attractive in their own ways, and strong. It was a pity they all must die. Their combined Quickenings would make Jacqueline a force to be reckoned with, and quite possibly, the winner of the Game.

_Perhaps I shall enjoy all three of you before I take your heads,_ The younger Immortal mused inwardly as she stared at the Second One. _I will save you for last; I will have your friends first, and then you will also be inside me. _Jacqueline decided.

Her frosty gaze raked over the golden band on the Halcyon's left ring finger; it meant nothing to the Frenchwoman, for she had little regard for the institution of marriage. Whatever the Church deemed sacred, the Immortal had long ago cast down and turned her back upon. There once was a time when she had been a naïve and trusting soul, believing without question that which the Holy See espoused but no more. The Frenchwoman did not linger on her former life; it was where it belonged, in the past. There was the future to see to – hers.

First, Jacqueline needed to find the fair Immortal's friends; she had not seen them since her initial encounter with the dark Immortals. Her clandestine eavesdropping forays when Monsieur McGulloch was in his private study yielded no information. Their location was of the utmost importance; after she took Monsieur Spencer's head, they would no doubt have a grudge to settle when all was said and done. Today was the Frenchwoman's lucky day.

Jacqueline composed herself and strolled towards the Second Oldest. Thoughtfully, Caine watched the younger Immortal walk towards him. Though not a raging beauty, Gregory's assistant was handsome in a cold, imperious, 'touch-me-not' way. The Halcyon, however, he preferred his women more earthy. Caine was thankful he had dropped his wife off at the famous department store prior to seeing Gregory; it helped having contacts within the store, although in reality, it was more of an inside joke. Thanks to Adam, Caine knew (unlike his wife, or the tattooed Member of that secret society) that the Manager of the world famous department store was, in actuality, Meredith's Watcher. If he personally couldn't be with her, Caine couldn't think of a better place to have his beloved wife, than with someone who would track her and record her every move. If something were to happen to her, he would know every minute detail, and make all involved pay.

For some indefinable reason, Caine did not wish Meredith and the Frenchwoman to meet. The Halcyon studied the Immortal before him with hooded eyes; there was something about her that bothered him. Perhaps it was the way Gregory's assistant moved: graceful . . . feline-like. That was it. The Halcyon's lips tightened imperceptibly. He hated cats. Not only was he allergic to the damned creatures, he once had a bad experience with the larger variety. Only because of his love for his wife did he tolerate her miserable calico. More than once, the Second Oldest was tempted to dispose of the irritating hairball, but managed to keep his harmful intentions in check; knowing how much it would pain his wife, was the sole reason Caine spared the cat.

"My dear boy, I was beginning to wonder when you would come again!" Caine's attention was pulled away from Jacqueline's approach by the sound of Gregory's voice.

Turning towards the Proprietor, a lopsided grin appeared on the Halcyon's face. The Frenchwoman's progress was cut short as Gregory made his way towards the Second Oldest. A slight frown appeared on her face as she watched the two men exchange greetings. Jacqueline took another step towards the men when Gregory turned and gestured towards the hallway leading towards his private office.

"Ah, Jacqueline, my dear – I believe we do have a question over there. Kindly see to them while I take care of this young man, hmm?" Gregory said, when he spied his assistant.

"Naturellement, Monsieur (of course, Sir)." Jacqueline murmured, forcing her lips to twist into a smile.

Reluctantly, the younger Immortal returned to the counter, and greeted a patron ready to make a purchase, yet her eyes were on the men as they disappeared into the hallway. Inside Gregory's private office, the men settled into their seats and faced each other across the expanse of Gregory's desk.

"Have a bite?" Gregory offered.

"I'm fine thank you, Sir. I'm saving my appetite for later." The Halcyon demurred, holding his hand up.

Although Caine was looking forward to tea at the Georgian Restaurant, he was definitely inclined to indulge his sweet tooth at Max Brenner's Chocolate Bar. The Second One had yet to decipher the mystifying link between the sweet foodstuff and Meredith's shopping activity. Caine discovered that feeding his lovely wife chocolate, and ordering more of the confections to take home often led to a much shorter shopping spree, which suited him just fine. Money was no object – Caine could buy every single item in the department store down to the last square of toilet paper and not feel it financially. The need to curtail his wife's shopping was much more basic – the Halcyon did not wish to move to a larger house in order to contain all her purchases.

"If you change your mind . . . " Gregory replied; the Immortal's host gestured towards the tiered plates laden with teacakes, dainty pots of lemon curd, mint jelly, strawberry preserves, clotted cream and other tempting delights.

"You eat well." Caine commented.

"I did not always; there were several occasions when I hardly had time to eat – nor any at that. Food is not easy to come by in Wartime. Also, there are pleasures, then there are pleasures." Gregory said with a conspiratorial wink. "I find food to be a comfort for me." The older man said with a small smile.

Caine nodded in understanding. He was no stranger to hunger; his involvement in the American Revolution, where he fought (and died several times) from beginning to end was a good Teacher in crash dieting. Caine smiled politely as he watched his host pour them a cup of tea. The Halcyon perked up as he sniffed the air.

"Mmmm . . ." the Immortal said, inhaling the fragrant aroma that spread across the room.

"You like?" Gregory asked with an indulgent smile.

"Darjeeling tea the 'Queen of Teas'! Very much so!" the younger man enthused, accepting his cup.

"And how do you know she is real?" Gregory asked

Caine watched his Host break a scone in two. Gregory slathered one portion with strawberry preserves, and added a dollop of clotted cream to the other. Putting the pieces back together, the old gentleman began to eat as the Immortal began his narrative.

"Experience," Caine replied. "I, er. . . stayed with a Tibetan monk. He was kind enough to allow me on one of his walks. One day, we picked some leaves and made tea. It was the best I ever had – and it is the only kind I will allow in my home." A quirky grin appeared on the younger Man's face. Though it was years ago, the memory was still vivid . . .

_: Augustenberg, Germany_

_September 1865_

_As Tutor and bodyguard to His Serene Highness, Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, the third son of Duke Charles August and Countess Luise of Danneskold-Samoe, Caine Spencer was never far from his young charge. His duties included watching over the boy, educating him, and sometimes instructing him in the finer points of swordplay. As the child became a youth who reached manhood, the Duke's son's awareness of the world around him increased; unfortunately, that awareness included his Tutor (whom the Duke's son admired greatly). How could his Teacher, a young man himself, know so much about the world a world young Christian felt he was only just beginning to really learn about? _

_Duke August's son often wondered about his Tutor, the soft spoken, gentle man with the commanding presence, who had been his companion and confidante for the last ten years, a man whom his own excellent father on many occasions consulted with. One day, while observing his Tutor, who was absorbed in reading 'The Iliad'(in Greek), it occurred to Christian, that Sir Spencer scarcely seemed older than him, and remained virtually unchanged since he was a child._

_Young Christian's sense of curiosity, nurtured and encouraged by the Master Spencer, was increased. The more Christian thought on the matter, the more Duke Charles' son determined that, when they traveled to Coburg to attend a diplomatic function, he would further question his Tutor. As for the Halcyon, Caine sensed his time with his mortal charge was swift coming to an end; apparently, the Halcyon's encouragement that his charge seek knowledge about that which he did not understand was a lesson learned quite well. The Second One knew the Duke's son watched him with questions in his eyes. Soon, the Immortal would be asked that which was not for the young man to know. _

It is time to leave_, Caine thought to himself._

_The Halcyon sorely regretted encouraging his mortal charge to satisfy his sense of curiosity; during the long journey to Colburg, Caine's pupil peppered the Halcyon with questions about the Immortal's past. After the long and tiresome journey, the Immortal was relieved to finally reach their destination. When he was alone at last, the Halcyon thought long and hard, planning several scenarios that would leave few (if any) questions when he left. Unbeknownst to the Second Oldest, Caine's dilemma was to be solved at that evening's soirée. _

_Mingling with the other distinguished guests, Caine courteously endured the prattling of the Baroness of Something-or-Other, before she spied a more prestigious listener. Granted a moment's reprieve from socializing, Caine nursed his flute of champagne in an out of the way corner, where he continued to mull over his options. The Immortal was pulled from his broodings by a soft voice and a charming smile, framed by an abundance of ringlet curls. After a deep bow, and a brush of his lips across the Lady's gloved knuckles, the Halcyon had the immediate pleasure of making the young lady's acquaintance, the Princess Helena of the United Kingdom. _

_Chatting with the Princess, the Immortal sighed, for Caine espied his charge working his way through the crowd, coming towards them. Glad for the presence of the young lady, the Halcyon pasted a smile onto his face and introduced her to his charge; Caine was greatly amused and relieved to see that his presence was no longer required, nor wanted, for the Duke's son was clearly enchanted with the lovely Princess. Apparently, it was mutual, and the Immortal fancied himself indebted to the young lady, for she occupied young Christian that evening. Later that night, the Halcyon heard naught, but the ever-increasing virtues of Princess Helena. Upon their return home, enamored with the young lady, the Duke's son seemed to forget he wished to know more about his Tutor. Thankfully, it appeared that young Christian had forgotten his quest to delve deeper into his Tutor's personal history, especially when the young royals commenced their whirlwind romance with regular correspondences. _

_In the winter, seizing the opportunity in which to make his escape, Caine requested to be relieved from his post, claiming a sick relative to attend. Though somewhat saddened to be parted with his exceptional Tutor, young Christian had other matters on his mind, for Queen Victoria gave her permission for the German blue blood to marry her third daughter, Princess Helena of Great Britain and Ireland. Caine Spencer left quietly that night, never to be heard from again. No longer connected to young Christian, the Immortal took great pleasure when he learned Christian and Princess Helena married the following year. The Halcyon wished them all the best. Caine learned through the years that the royal couple had children – six in all._

_The Second Eldest soon found himself traveling along the West Bengal territory in India. Caine was unbothered by the cold, dry northern wind that blew intermittently as he followed the path of a river; what he was, was thirsty – his canteen was long dry, and his thirst was so powerful, Caine was willing to drink the muddy waters. The Immortal searched the waters of the riverbank, unsure of the creatures that dwelt within its murky depths. Caine deemed it safe enough to fill his canteen and slake his thirst when, from across the riverbank, a doe and her fawn lowered their heads to drink. _

_With night fast approaching, the Immortal determinedly pushed through the dense thickets and tamarisk shrubs growing rampant by the river; the Immortal was thankful when he came across the old ruins of an abandoned temple, almost reclaimed by the jungle. Deciding to shelter in it for the night, the Halcyon was searching for a suitable place to lay his bedroll, when he stumbled upon the remains of a fresh, partially consumed deer carcass, thick with flies that buzzed about. Ever mindful of the large number of tigers that roamed the jungle freely, the Immortal drew his sword and slowly backed away from the kill; it would behoove him, he decided, to continue on until he found a village friendly to travelers. As the Halcyon turned to leave, the last thing Caine saw was the sharply marked, uneven black stripes upon the tiger's face as it sprang upon him. The large canine teeth and powerful jaws cut short Caine's shrill scream as they closed around the Halcyon's throat the Immortal was dead before his sword clattered to the ground. _

_Dragging the Second One's body next to the deer carcass, the large cat raked leaves from the rotting deer across to where the Immortal lay. Satisfied his new kill was adequately sheltered beneath a layer of dead leaves, the tiger retreated a small distance away to rest from its labors before eating more of the deer carcass. Soaking in the coolness of the ancient stones, the big cat stretched languorously and began grooming itself; it paused when its sensitive whiskers detected a subtle, but unmistakable change in the atmosphere. Alert, the feline rose and crouched in readiness; its large eyes searched the ruins for the interloper, but were captured by the appearance of the tiny, brilliant spark of the Quickening. Another, and then another spark appeared, charging the atmosphere with raw, living energy. A low growl pulsated in the tiger's throat, watching, as its prey's broken body became a smoking mass, as the dried, half-rotted leaves were seared by the electrical activity. Unhindered, the immortal phenomena continued its work, reuniting torn cartilage, repairing the ruined flesh, until no mark was upon the Immortal. The mysterious process within the Halcyon's body concentrated on the still, motionless heart, providing the organ's mechanical and electrical function, until it was ready to beat on its own; the Quickening continued, multiplying and expanding the spilled blood and plasma. Inside Caine's previously ravaged chest, the quivering heart wrung, twisted and thrust into life, beating with a steady rhythm, circulating the life giving blood, until with a gasp, the Second One revived. Groaning, the Halcyon attempted to sit up but immediately layback, feeling quite weak._

_The tiger did not understand what was happening; all it knew was its recent kill was attempting to flee. With a quick leap, the large cat pounced once more upon the newly awakened Immortal, and in a matter of seconds, undid the work of the Quickening as its razor sharp claws sank into Caine's abdomen. Slicing into the soft tissue easily, the tiger's fetid breath and powerful jaws prevented the Halcyon from breathing once more; his chest was crushed beneath the full weight of the five hundred-fifty pound cat straddling him. Once again, Caine died. This time, the tiger did not move away from the Immortal, just in case his prey was not totally disabled. When no sign of life could be detected, the feline lay next to the inert body, and began licking its paws clean. The tiger then began licking the Halcyon's side; its rough tongue scraped the tender flesh beneath as it moved along, removing the remnants of the Halcyon's clothing with its claws. Worrying the side of the Immortal, the big cat was about to take a mouthful of soft, tender flesh from the Immortal's gaping abdomen, when it shook its head vigorously; the tiger chuffed and sneezed, drawing back as the sparks of the Quickening reappeared once again, stinging the feline's sensitive whiskers and nose, as it raced to repair the mortal wounds. Spooked and stung, the big cat backed away, its fangs bared and ears laid back; the tiger retreated to the safety of the jungle, its excellent night vision taking the whole scenario in._

_With a gasp, Caine revived. Sneezing in reaction to the tiger hairs clinging to his skin, the Immortal choked on the nocturnal insects swarming around him and clogging the humid night air. The sickly, sweet stench of rotting flesh filled his nose – and no wonder, for he was cozied next to the deer carcass. Caine gagged and immediately regretted it. Not only did his neck hurt, but his entire body, more so his midsection. He grimaced as he made a half-hearted effort to brush the burnt leaves from his clothes – or rather, what remained of it. _

"_Damned cat!" Caine muttered weakly before he sneezed again._

_Cricks and pops filled the air as he stretched the cords of his neck. Slowly gaining his feet, Caine flailed weakly at the humid air, in a futile attempt to drive the bothersome insects away; he knew he would soon regain his full strength – and a good thing, too, for there was no telling when the tiger would return. Rubbing his neck, the Immortal cautiously looked around. He couldn't see the tiger, but that did not mean it was not near. From the cover of darkness, the tiger remained where it was, allowing the unnatural prey to leave. Teeth bared in a soundless growl, the tiger retreated further into the dark jungle, watching vigilantly from the shadows. It would attack again, should the Man-thing attempt to steal its deer carcass. _

_The Immortal struggled to his feet and stumblingly retraced his steps; feeling stronger by the minute, Caine managed to locate his sword; after a cursory exam, by what the moonlight allowed, the Immortal quickly sheathed the blade, grabbed up his gear, and left the ruins. Unable to search for adequate shelter in the gathering dark, the Halcyon was left with no choice but to spend the night high up in the trees, and hope that the big cats were unable to climb, or that he did not fall out. Needless to say, he did not sleep at all._

_In the morning, after a meager breakfast of dried beef strips, the Second Oldest dropped his bedroll and gear over the side of his resting place. He watched it fall through the branches, listening for the _'thump'_ when leaves obscured his sight; securing his sword to his person, Caine climbed down the tree and drew his sword. This time he was determined to at least put up a fight, should he be attacked. After collecting his belongings, the Immortal continued on his way. It was not long before the Halcyon found traces of humanity – well worn paths, broken tools discarded by the wayside, animal tracks that could only belong to livestock – and most important, footprints. Encouraged, Caine quickened his pace, only to pull up short when he felt the presence of another Immortal. Cautiously, the Halcyon turned towards the direction of the Buzz, awaiting the owner's imminent arrival. Part of him was wishing it were the tiger. To the Halcyon's great surprise, a woman emerged from the jungle vegetation. In comparison to their male counterparts, female Immortals were few and few in between. Judging by the quality of her clothes, Caine knew she was of a higher caste, for her sari was quite elaborate. The Immortal also noticed that she was also very lovely to boot. Her long, dark tresses were styled in a fan-shaped coiffeur, adorned with serpentine braids secured in place by golden filigree hair ornaments inlaid with ivory and semi-precious stones. The Halcyon became self-conscious of his own present state; he needed a bath badly. _

"_I am Caine." The Immortal said, wondering if she understood him. _

"_Vashti Kalidasa." She replied. At least she understood English (much to the Halcyon's great relief)._

"_Is the village near?" Caine inquired. Perhaps after he cleaned up, he and the lovely Immortal could be better acquainted. He wished to know more of this land, and how many other Immortals were in the area._

"_There is only one way to know that." Vashti replied with a pointed glance downward. Peeking from the folds of her sari was her blade. _

_Vashti firmly gripped the hilt of her saber. A Tulwar. Caine wondered how she came upon her sword, for the curved blade of the Tulwar, with its disk-shaped pommel, was more commonly associated with cavalry, and other such mounted units. The Halcyon wasn't in the mood for a Challenge; he was hot, thirsty, his one set of clothes was in dire need of laundering, and his current outfit barely covered his body; what was left was in tatters and crusted with dried blood, dirt and sweat. Caine's valiant attempts to talk his way out of crossing sword with the woman fell upon deaf ears as she strode confidently towards him. Dropping his gear, the elder Immortal drew his sword and went to meet his Challenger. Surprisingly fierce, Vashti's spirited fighting style was unlike anything Caine had come across. There were several times when the quick footed Indian managed to come close to her goal. Unfortunately for her, it was the Halcyon who received the Quickening._

_Confident the electrical storm drove away any lurking tigers, the Halcyon shed the remnants of his decimated clothing, reached into his haversack, and donned his travel stained, encrusted clothes once again. Hunkering down next to Vashti's severed head, the Immortal studied the glassy eyes staring unseeingly towards the heavens. The full, ruby lips that a moment before issued the Challenge now hung slack, her jaws were slightly agape. _

"_Pity." Caine said softly to himself, as he gently closed her eyes; he hadn't wanted to kill her._

_Reaching for Vashti's sword, the Second Born wiped it clean upon her lifeless body, before cutting away a swatch of the brilliant turquoise and gold fabric. Wrapping the Tulwar in the cotton cloth, the Immortal secured it to his haversack. Taking hold of Vashti's long hair, the Halcyon flung her head into the brush. Grabbing hold of her ankles, he dragged her body into the brush as well; he didn't bother burying it; the jungle creatures would see to it. Returning to his belongings, the Immortal shouldered it once more. Without conscious effort, now knew where to go, and the Immortal set off towards the village. _

_Before he even made two steps into the village, much to the Halcyon's dismay, the throbbing Buzz announced the presence of another Immortal. Once again, the Indian woman's knowledge was useful, for not only was Caine able to speak the language like a native, he now knew the distinctive presence signature belonged to the monk named Tsering, who frequented the area. _

"_Damnit!" the Halcyon muttered to himself. He hadn't wanted to deal with the Immortal so soon. _

_Caine followed the pull of the buzz, ignoring the openly curious and fearful looks of the villagers. The tittering laughter of the children following the Immortal would have made the Halcyon smile as they pointed at him and chattered excitedly in Hindu, had it not been for the present circumstances. Turning the corner of the market place, between a vendor selling fresh produce, and another hawking hand-woven baskets, the Halcyon came face to face with the monk. Stoically clutching his begging bowl, Tsering's dark brown eyes studied the Immortal before him, not missing the vivid cloth fluttering from the Stranger's travel pack. The Monk knew who once wore that color, and he could see the distinctive pommel of the sword that had become unwrapped. His protector was gone. Unfortunately, in their community, it was inevitable that there would always be One who was just a little better, just a little stronger. The fact he had defeated Vashti, was a testament to his skill, for his protector was quite skilled with the blade. . Far from Holy Ground, the only reason (so he believed) he still kept his head, was the fact that Mortals were present._

"_My name is Caine." The Second Born said._

_Tsering's weathered face held no trace of fear, only resignation as he studied the Immortal before him_

"_I am " the Monk began._

"_Tsering." Caine quietly finished for him. He didn't ask how the Stranger knew his name; with Vashti's essence absorbed, the Monk simply nodded, knowing he knew all that was necessary._

"_My head is yours if you wish it." Tsering said, his gaze unflinching. _

"_There's been enough bloodshed today. I do not wish that; there's something else I want" the Immortal said. _

_Tsering nodded. The youthful Immortal before him did not set off his internal alarms; in fact, he merely appeared quite weary. despite the fact that he may yet lose his head, the Monk decided to aid the stranger; although he had never heard of Caine, he felt oddly safe in his presence. Caine enlisted the monk's assistance in finding accommodations for the night, a hot meal, a bath, and a change of clothes. In the morning, dressed in traditional clothes of the kurta-pyjama, the Immortal accepted Tsering's invitation to stay with him for a time. Together, they traveled to the monk's mountainside home in the Darjeeling district, where the Second Eldest spent the next ten years amongst the monks in their simple temple, seeking enlightenment. _

_High up on the mountain, safe from Challenges and surrounded by nature, the years Caine spent with Tsering were amongst the most informative the Immortal experienced, and the Halcyon sincerely doubted he'd ever forget it. On the tenth anniversary of his stay at the temple, Tsering decided it was time for his student to brew his own cup of tea. Leading the Halcyon 8,000 feet above sea level, there upon the steep, treacherous, cloud covered slope, with the snow capped mountains Everest, Kabru and Kanchenjunga in view, the Immortals picked the tiny leaves together, brewed a pot of tea, and parted ways. The saffron and scarlet-shrouded monk watched his student leave with a sense of satisfaction, and with as many kilos of the costly tea as the Halcyon could carry down the mountainside. : _

Caine raised the teacup and breathed deeply, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation. He slowly blew on the liquid and took a sip, savoring the floral, bright multi-layered flavor of the first flush, and then puckered his lips against the astringent nature of the liquid.

"The Queen of Teas has a bit of a sting, does she not?" the Immortal said, carefully setting his cup back down. He would wait to drink more when the hot liquid cooled to a more palatable temperature.

"Most females do, my boy." Gregory agreed with a wink.

He set his teacup onto the gleaming silver tray and patted the crumbs from his lips with a linen napkin. Gregory could almost hear the questions the Halcyon wanted to ask. It would be easy to give the younger man the answers before the questions were presented; however, a portion of their conversation was not meant for Caine's ears alone.

In the meantime, because he liked the fellow seated across from him, he would tell Master Spencer a thing or two about their mutual friend. The Immortal's host selected a dainty spinach quiche and studied it. He consumed the bite-sized morsel before beginning his tale. The Halcyon leaned back in his chair and tucked his arms behind his head and listened with rapt attention. The humorous stories Gregory told the Halcyon about Methos (fudging just a bit on the dates and locations) just gave the younger Immortal some interesting leverage when next he saw the Eldest.

_Methos could be maddeningly close-mouthed when he chose._ Caine thought to himself.

"So, did he ever tell you who gave him his Ivanhoe?" Caine asked. For as long as he'd known the Oldest, the Halcyon did not remember Methos ever mentioning the origins of his cherished weapon.

"No, he did not." The other man said with a bland smile; if the young man before him only knew . . .

_: Merry Old England_

_King Arthur's Court_

_410 A.D._

_"My thanks. . . for everything." The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle. _

_"Where will you go, my friend?" the Wizard asked._

_"Oh, I don't know. I have time to decide . . ." Methos replied with a wry grin._

_Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet._

_"What is this?" Methos asked as he opened it._

_"A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely." Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed._

_Looking down at the King's Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head and nudged Shadowfax forward. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider._

_Merlin knew Methos hadn't opportunity to gather up his belongings on that night; the venerable old man made sure to tuck the blade into the bedroll secured to the back of Shadowfax' saddle, where it would be found in due time. The sword itself was twin to Excalibur; Nimue ceded to Merlin's insistence that certain elements and embellishments be modified to better reflect the qualities of the wielder to whom it would belong. The old gentleman knew full well that his Pupil had walked the path of darkness, and flirted dangerously with it occasionally. All in his Order believed Methos irredeemable and unworthy of the blade; Merlin, however, felt otherwise – he sensed the goodness in Methos' heart (though it, at Ages at a time, flickered and sputtered as a candle in the wind) was in fact, deeply rooted. The Others scoffed that their 'Associate' entertained a fool's hope. Methos' Teacher knew there would be difficult choices the Eldest would face, how their resulting consequences would drive lesser Men into the abyss of despair, madness – or both; there would also be great personal sacrifices the younger Man would make in the future, and the inevitable heartache that would follow. Although Merlin knew well how the hearts of Men were easily corrupted, the Wizard firmly believed his Pupil's character would ultimately reveal him as worthy of the esteemed blade that the strength of Methos' heart was as that of the fierce lions that graced the quillions of his blade . . . : _

"Tell me, what was he like when you first met?" Caine queried.

"Less jaded." Gregory replied with a playful grin. The Halcyon merely raised an eyebrow.

"Really . . . ." Caine murmured thoughtfully; that was difficult to imagine..

Gregory gave the Immortal a wide grin. The good humor in his blue-grey eyes dimmed slightly, for the Host perceived the figure lingering out of sight, listening intently to their conversation just outside the open door. Caine's host smiled. Now that all the players were in place, easing the young man's mind wouldn't hurt a thing, he decided.

"So . . . have you heard from Adam?" Caine asked.

"No; have you?" Gregory asked.

"No. He mentioned he was going out of town, with MacLeod and Dawson. He said they'd be back in two weeks' time. Its going on the end of the third week."

"Does that worry you?" Gregory asked.

"I'm just curious; although . . . I'd hate for him to be in some kind of trouble." Caine said.

"Oh, he's a big boy. I'm sure he can handle himself quite well." The old gentleman said.

"Yes, but he's also quite good about keeping to a schedule."

"We cannot control everything, Caine."

"I know; I guess I am worried about him but don't tell him that."

Rising from his desk, Gregory wiped his hands clean. Striding over to a large, upright cabinet, the Immortal's host opened the heavily carven doors and withdrew two long, cylindrical tubes and carried them to the desk. The old gentleman detached the lids before carefully removing the contents; unfurling the papers, the Proprietor used several books as weights to prevent the papers from rolling up again.

"Let me show you something, Caine." Gregory said, motioning the younger man to his side.

The Halcyon stood and joined his host. Studying the maps, the Immortal crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

"What is this?" the Second One asked.

"This, Caine, is a map." Gregory answered.

"Yes, I can see that, Gregory." The Halcyon said dryly. "What I meant, was: what about it?"

"That's where they are." His Host replied.

"You can't be serious.'" Caine said bluntly.

"And why ever not?" Gregory asked.

"Because this place doesn't exist. . .you mean to tell me that all three of them are here ?" The Immortal said, striving to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"You're absolutely correct, dear boy. " Gregory agreed. Caine raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue. Much as he liked Gregory, he wasn't fond of the term 'boy'.

"Now you're talking out of both sides of your mouth, Sir." Caine said.

"Look carefully, Caine. Can you not liken this world to yours?" Gregory asked.

Caine's skeptical expression melted into a thoughtful one as he carefully studied the map; at first glance, the Immortal would not have thought it a map of Europe, since the depiction was of a single great land mass. However, if this 'Middle-earth' was made of independently moving sections that experienced an incredible continental drift, well . . . Caine could not ignore the striking similarities Middle-earth and modern day Europe.

"Okay," Caine allowed "But how . . they could be anywhere!" The Halcyon said disbelievingly as he gestured towards the map.

"They're here." Gregory replied, pointing to a place on the map.

"'Rohan'?" Caine asked. "What's in 'Rohan'?" the Immortal asked.

"Answers." Gregory replied.

"And they'll come home from there?"

"No, not quite yet, dear boy. They must journey to Gondor to return home."

"How many more days will that add to their journey?" Caine asked. He didn't relish the thought of having his house, as well as his wife and himself, targeted as the best way for new Immortals to test themselves for an extended period of time.

"It all depends on what they each discover there." Gregory replied.

"You can't be serious!" Caine exclaimed, not liking what he was hearing. His Host's sharp glance made the Immortal bite back his next words. Taking a moment to calm himself, the Halcyon chose a safer question.

"Is there any way to get a message out to them?" Caine ventured hopefully.

"If there was, what would you have to say?" Gregory asked, evading the question.

"Hurry the bloody hell up over there. Do what you need to do and get out." Caine said.

_You're not the only one who feels that way._ Gregory replied silently.

The amber waves of grass bowed as the wind moved through their long blades. Silently moving forward, another clearly heard the low rustling sound in the grass, unheard by human ears. Cocking his head, the Elf paused; his keen hearing tracked the miniscule movements. Bending down, the Wood Elf picked up a small, smooth stone and tossed it. Lifting his bow, the Crown Prince fitted an arrow to the string as the birds took flight. Supper was on the wing – but not for long. Reflexively, in one smooth movement, the Elf drew back his bow, took aim and released the arrow. Amidst a flurry of feathers, the ptarmigan fell from the sky; before it touched the earth, the Mirkwood Elf released more arrows. Another ptarmigan, then three more unfortunate birds plummeted downwards.

After collecting his arrows, Legolas closely examined each individual wooden shaft for damage, running his long fingers over the feathered fletching before slipping them back into his quiver. Although his task took but a moment, the Crown Prince lingered. As the eyes and ears of the group, Legolas often rode ahead to descry their route; sometimes the one named MacLeod accompanied him; most times, the Elf preferred to be alone. Now was such a time. He wished to think matters over. On one hand, it felt good to be away from the others – if only for a while. On the other, Legolas could not wait to return to Jordan's side. Despite the fact they were at odds. A temporary setback, the Wood Elf believed; however, he could not ignore the twinges of dread that were beginning to cloud his heart.

_When did it all change?_ The Elf wondered to himself.

Previously, life was simple. Keep the woodland realm that was his home free of encroaching Orcs and giant spiders; Legolas, along with the other Elven warriors did so, until, as his father's envoy, the Wood Elf traveled the lands, carrying out his duties as the Mirkwood emissary. Called upon by Elrond to represent the Elves and protect the Ring Bearer, the Crown Prince joined the quest to destroy the One Ring. The Wood Elf's task was to stay alive, keep the Ring Bearer alive, rid Middle-earth of evil and go home. Mission accomplished. Afterwards, Legolas traversed the lands on a more personal, pleasant quest with his dear friend, Gimli. That too, was accomplished. Although the call of the Sea was building strength, Legolas had no true desire to depart from Arda just yet. Elessar still required his help, and Gimli he would enjoy his friendship with the cantankerous Dwarf till the stout fellow drew his last breath as well.

_Yes_, Legolas thought, _there is much yet to do in Arda. I cannot leave until the time is ripe. _

Then along came Jordan. Normally in total command of his emotions and actions, more and more, Legolas felt his control over his life slip away. And it all started with Jordan Waters. Initially, Legolas believed the strange woman to be sadly deluded. Fair, yes, but deluded all the same; as he and the woman grew closer, Legolas could no longer deny that, indeed, Jordan Waters was what she claimed to benot of this world; every revelation about her only led to more questions. The Elf was intensely curious to know how Jordan crossed the boundaries between worlds, for it required magic – strong magic, which Jordan obviously did not possess, and the answers he sought were only starting to be revealed. Legolas believed (though he could not reason how and why the feeling was so strong) with each passing day Jordan remained in Imladris, she was meant to remain.

What Legolas had not expected was to become her lover. . . and then the unthinkable happened – he fell in love with her. It no longer mattered that Legolas' chosen one was not of his world – nor that she was Mortal. Yes, the Crown Prince had asked her to Bind herself to him; despite the fact she had not yet verbally consented to have him, Legolas was not overly concerned, for he believed deep within his soul, that Jordan felt for him as he did her. It was Legolas' intention to allow Jordan time to consider his offer – but not too long, lest she change her mind; to Bind herself to him would require that Jordan forgo her return to her world. Legolas' eyes narrowed and a frown marred his features. The arrival of his lover's 'kin' only served to complicate matters; the fact that this MacLeod, the Highlander, as the others called him, was able to cross worlds as well only raised more questions . . .

_Imladris_

_72 hours prior_

"_Mannon le, Mellon (how are you, my friend)?" Elrohir asked._

"_How do you think he is?" Elladan asked his brother, exasperated._

"_If you would let him speak, we all will know. Let him answer." Elrohir retorted._

_The Mirkwood Elf stood with the Rivendell Lords and Dwarf, silently watching Jordan and the other Outlanders. Legolas shrugged noncommittally. _

"_They've come to take her back, Mellon (my friend)." Elrohir said matter-of-factly before he took a sip of mead. Elrond's son ignored the glares his twin and the Dwarf shot in his direction._

"_No one said Lady Jordan is leaving." Gimli cut in confidently, with a scowl on his ruddy face._

"_Oh, and do you know something we don't?" Elrohir asked the Dwarf as he studied the stout fellow. He failed to see any redeeming qualities in the coarse, unrefined creature, and failed to understand how and why his Woodland Kin had chosen the Underground Dweller to be his closest friend. Still, he had to admit the fierce protectiveness which the Master Dwarf came to his friend's defense was quite amusing – like that of a rodent coming to a cat's defense._

_Though his beady eyes were fierce, upon his lips, hidden within Gimli's bushy beard was a tiny smile; unbeknownst to the twin Lords, the Dwarf was, in fact, privy to an interesting tidbit of information . . . _

_: Imladris_

_Earlier that afternoon_

_After it was discovered who the Strangers were, and what bound them to the Lady Jordan, Gimli noticed when his Elf-friend left the small gathering, a clear indication that he was quite disturbed. Allowing the Wood Elf time to absorb the recent events, Gimli let him be. Before dinner, the Dwarf had gone in search of his pointy-eared friend; it was no surprise that he found Legolas at the archery range, firing his arrows in rapid succession. When the Elf Prince did not acknowledge his friend's presence; the Dwarf knew his friend to be deeply troubled. Though bored, Gimli watched in silence as Legolas swiftly emptied four quivers into the target placed three hundred feet away; only when the center could no longer accommodate additional arrows, were the surrounding rings bristling with the feathered shafts. When the target was brought near, Gimli barely glanced at the projectiles neatly embedded in an orderly, precise manner. Still Gimli waited for the Elf to speak, but still Legolas remained silent. The Elf-friend was becoming impatient. After the Pointy-Ear pulled free the last shaft, did the son of Glóin speak._

"_She spoke the truth." The Dwarf said gruffly._

_Legolas did not reply, but continued to sort the arrows into their respective quivers._

"_She did say her companions would come." Gimli continued. His Elven friend paused for the briefest moment before continuing his task._

"_Well?" Gimli grunted, with his thick arms crossed over his barrel-chest. He was beginning to lose his patience with the Mirkwood Elf._

"_She will leave " he continued._

"_She will remain here." Legolas interrupted calmly. _

_Gimli looked at his friend skeptically, wondering if the Elf had too much afternoon sun. _

"_Confident, are ye?" The Dwarf countered._

"_I have reason to be." Legolas replied with a level gaze and gave the Dwarf an enigmatic look._

"_Phagh! Riddles are best reserved for wizards – why think you she will stay?" Gimli asked_

"_I asked her to Bind herself to me." Legolas calmly answered. _

_The Elf's words caught the stout fellow off guard. Gimli blinked several times, and his mouth worked silently for a few seconds before his ruddy face broke into a wide grin. The son of Glóin grasped the Elf by his elbows, and was about to draw him into a fierce hug, when he immediately sobered._

"_Did she . . . ?" _

"_Accept? Not yet." Legolas said. "But she will." The Elf added confidently._

_Gimli nodded; although he was thrilled for his pointy-eared friend, the Elf-friend did not think the matter would be settled that easily. Privately, the son of Glóin wondered if the matter could be settled so simply. However, if the Elf felt secure about his Lady's heart, then it was enough for the Dwarf to believe the same . . . if only he could get past his unease. There was something about the tall, pale one, the Son-of-Pier, that did not sit right with the son of Glóin; :_

_Elladan stood silently at his brother's side, a solemn expression on his face; their Mirkwood friend (as he had throughout the meal), remained silent, though his blue gaze often focused on his lover. Finally, Legolas spoke._

"_Excuse me." The Golden Elf said. _

_Legolas made his way towards the balcony, where the Lady Jordan had walked. The remaining three silently watched the Golden Elf weave his way through the crowd; certain their woodland kin was out of ear shot, Elladan waited still before punching his brother in the arm. _

"_Man (What)!" Elrohir exclaimed his mead sloshed onto his hand._

"_I am sure he already knows that." Elladan said. _

"_Well, maybe 'twill spur Legolas to action. He is quite complacent about it. If it were me, I'd "_

"_Throw a tantrum and beg the maiden to remain by your side." Elladan finished for his twin._

"_Is that wrong?" Elrohir asked innocently._

"_You've not courted a maiden in an Age" Elladan reminded his brother._

"_We've had more important matters to tend to" Elrohir retorted._

"— _true, but when you did, if memory serves me correctly you are always the first to flee, especially when the maiden became too attached to you. And that is wrong. If you weren't my brother " _

"_I'd be someone else's brother." Elrohir said with a cheeky grin. "Well, I'd still do it, if the maiden of my choice were to leave me " Elrohir insisted._

"_No one said Lady Jordan is leaving." Gimli cut in confidently._

"_Oh really, Fangon (Bearded One)? The Lady's kin comes from afar to reclaim her. Surely even you don't think they will leave without her, simply because she and Legolas are . . . er, how shall we say –_

"_Close." Elladan provided tactfully._

"_Lovers." Elrohir said firmly._

"_Hrmmph." Gimli grunted; the Elven Lord had given voice to the Dwarf's private fears for his pointy-eared friend. Still, hope remained, but only time would tell._

"_Indeed." Elrohir said. _

_His brother said nothing more. By mutual consent, with goblets of Miruvor and mead in hand, the twin Lords and Dwarf stood silently together, each wrapped in their own private thoughts as they watched the woman's 'companions'. : _

Mortals. Sometimes Legolas wondered why he bothered with them; yet, as quickly as it came, the Elf dismissed the uncharitable thoughts from his mind. Legolas knew exactly why he bore with Mortals (especially since one Mortal in particular held his heart with an iron grip); contrary to what his Sire believed, the scion of Thranduil knew his existence would be very dull indeed without them. Aragorn, Gimli, and those descended from the house of Théoden, had enriched Legolas' life more than the Elf ever believed possible.

The Mirkwood Prince reluctantly turned his attention back to the fowl; pulling up several blades of grass, Legolas efficiently trussed the birds together by their feet before continuing his hunt. Walking lightly through the knee-high grasses, it was not long before his search yielded several nests hidden from sight. Using more of the long grass, the Elf quickly and efficiently wove the amber blades together, fashioning a carrying basket. Deftly, he placed the eggs inside and cushioned the fragile shells with their nesting materials. With a sigh, Legolas pursed his lips and gave a long, piercing whistle. As he waited for his mount to appear, Legolas' brows dipped down and his azure gaze took on a faraway look. Once again, his thoughts turned to his heart's desire.

Confident that Jordan would agree to his offer, Legolas looked forward to meeting her 'kin', considering it an opportunity to better acquaint himself with his future in-laws; the Crown Prince had been patiently awaiting Jordan's answer. Legolas was patient as all Elves are; and he continued to be patient with her, even as they began their journey to the White City. However, still Jordan remained silent. During the first leg of their journey, secure in the fact that Jordan's actions spoke what her words did not, the Elf did not immediately seek an answer to his proposal; however, as they drew closer to Gondor, the fact he still had not received an answer from his lover did not sit well with him at all. Though he refused to doubt Jordan's feelings for him, Legolas could not deny that he was beginning to become concerned.

There was seldom opportunity for Legolas and Jordan to talk privately for but a few moments, for son-of-Daw, the legless one, would then be at her side. MacLeod, as the Elf privately called him, rarely left Jordan's side. Duncan MacLeod. The innate, Elven ability to sense the Outlander's very essence was that of a warrior. MacLeod's stance, his hard body, classically sculpted face and intense, dark eyes framed by shoulder length black hair, was kept neatly pulled back into a silver clasp. The clasp itself, a singular piece of silver, was intricately knotted so that there was no beginning, nor end. Legolas remarked to Jordan that it was similar to the Elven design; she told him it symbolized eternity. The Elf was intrigued, for he did not think it possible for Mortals to grasp the concept of infinity. Jordan had also told Legolas of MacLeod's intensely protective nature. The Elf's blue eyes narrowed.

_I possess one, too, Meleth nín. No one takes what is mine. No one._ Legolas thought grimly to himself.

The rhythmic canter of hooves announced Arod's arrival, breaking the Elf's thoughts. With a sharp neigh and a toss of his head, the horse pranced closer to his Elf. Grasping the beast's bridle, Legolas stroked his mount's velvety nose absently.

"And where have you been?" Legolas asked his friend as he walked towards the saddle. Arod neighed and pawed at the ground.

"Really?" The Elf said.

Legolas was about to tie the fowl to the back of the saddle when Arod stepped away.

"Have you spiders under your saddle?" despite his words, the Mirkwood Prince smiled at his horse's antics. Arod snorted.

"Do not fret, Arod; the filly will yet be there when we arrive at Meduseld." the Elf said as he gave the horse's rump an affectionate slap. Arod snorted and tossed his head, the whites of his eyes showing; nonetheless, he stilled, allowing his Elf to secure the fowl to the saddle.

"Shall we go meet them?" Legolas asked his horse before gracefully leaping onto the equine's back; grasping the reins loosely, the Wood Elf allowed the horse to choose their path.

Galloping up a wind swept knoll, horse and rider came to a stop on the summit. Scanning the magnificent field before him, the Elf clearly saw in the distance, a company of horsemen a league away, galloping towards them. Legolas recognized the Rider in the lead to be the Marshal of the East-mark. The Wood Elf waited until the Riders to drew nearer before urging Arod down the knoll; when they were two hundred yards apart, the lead Rohirrim raised his long spear in the air. As a unit, the Rohirrim slowed, and then came to a stop, their horses neighing and chomping at the bit. Legolas spoke softly to Arod, who also slowed to a walk, giving the Marshal time to recognize the lone figure.

"My Lord Legolas!" the Rider called in salutation.

Elfhelm, the Marshall of the East-mark, swung off his horse and walked towards the Mirkwood Elf. Legolas also dismounted and met the Marshall. Taking their cue from their leader, the other Riders relaxed into a more comfortable position atop their mounts; their spears, though not held quite so threateningly, were still poised should circumstances change. The Crown Prince did not comment on their continued vigilance, watching silently as several Riders continued to scan the horizon. The War of the Ring had taken many from the Free Races, and the Rohirrim weren't about to lose another of their kin without exacting immediate retribution.

"Greetings, Elfhelm. What news of the Mark?" Legolas asked.

"We ride to Meduseld, my Lord, to give news to Éomer King of stragglers from the Dark Army. We still repel Strangers from the Mark."

"'Stragglers' and 'Strangers'?" the Elf asked.

"Yes, my Lord. We have confirmed reports of bands of Easterlings and Haradhrim in Rohan. Still others report their livestock being killed."

"By what?"

"Something big The tracks show a large animal; we believe wolves are the culprit." Elfhelm replied. Legolas' dark brow rose slightly as the Marshall continued to speak.

"Cattle and horses are missing, killed or partially eaten. Several horses were found with their bellies torn open." The Horseman's voice was tight with suppressed anger; his own mount, a gift from his departed Sire, was one of them.

"Orcs?" Legolas asked.

"'Tis hard to say, my Lord although we are searching for them." Elfhelm replied. Something in the man's eyes, the unease in the tone of the Marshall's voice caught the Elf's attention.

"There is more, is there not?" Legolas said. Elfhelm hesitated before answering the Fair Being.

"The villagers are frightened; most are comprised mostly of women and children. Several villages have been raided –more than once. We have had increasing run ins with the Wild Ones." Elfhelm said.

"Are the villages and dwellings protected?"

"To the best of our abilities, my Lord. We have suffered heavy losses, as you know. A few men are left to guard the dwellings and crops."

_The ones unfit to ride._ Legolas thought to himself.

"Aye. I know." Legolas replied. Sparing the Riders accompanying him a glance, Legolas saw that many were but youths, but the look in many an eye was that of one much older.

"I must needs divide my Éored, in order to see to safety of the villages."

The Marshal's reply answered why the Riders numbered but sixty, not the usual one hundred and twenty; Legolas' bright blue gaze touched briefly on the Riders' faces; the Éored accompanying Elfhelm were hardly more than boys, and their long spears were taller than a good portion of their wielders.

_They look as if they were expecting an attack at any moment._ The Elf thought to himself.

Legolas recognized many who sat atop their beasts, for they had fought at Helm's Deep. Many of them had yet to grow their first beards, as was common with Men. The ones who did grow facial hair resembled more the fuzz on a peach. Elfhelm, in turn, studied the fair being before him. Never in his life did he dare to see these wondrous creatures, yet, he also fought alongside (and witnessed the death of) many of the First Born at the Hornburg. Elfhelm's gaze turned to the ptarmigan behind the Elf saddle.

"Do you ride alone, Prince Legolas?" he asked.

"Nay, I ride with the Gimli the Dwarf and four others." Legolas answered.

"Very good, my Lord. When shall I inform Éomer King to expect you?" the Marshal inquired.

"By the morrow. We are encamped two leagues away from here." The fair Being replied.

"Take care, my Lord. The Riddermark is not yet cleansed from the scourge of the Dark; we yet have much work to do in that regard." Elfhelm warned the Elf.

"Thank you, Elfhelm." With a nod to the Elf, the Rohirrim called to his companions.

"To Edoras, Éored!" the Marshal cried to his Riders, wheeling his horse about; one by one, the unit followed their Marshal and thundered away.

"It appears Rohan, like Imladris, is in need of cleansing as well. Perhaps we may offer our services to a friend." The Mirkwood Elf murmured thoughtfully as he stroked his horse's neck. Legolas watched the Riders of Rohan a moment longer. With a neigh, the Elf-bearer turned and galloped back to camp.

"Are you going to stay on the horse all night, too?" Duncan said with a chuckle; holding his arms up, he waited to help his student dismount.

"I hurt too much to move." Jordan said, as the Highlander's rich baritone laugh filled the air.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body, Jordie. C'mon, down you go. Aren't you glad we're done riding for the day?" Duncan asked as his student as he helped her down, steadying her until her seemingly boneless legs could safely support her once again.

_Am I glad?_ Jordan asked herself.

Another day over meant another day less in Middle Earth . . . and with a certain Elf. Meeting the Highlander's soulful brown eyes, Jordan smiled weakly and nodded, not giving voice to the conflicting feelings within her. Teetering on the brink of indecision, the urge to tell Duncan everything between her and the Elf was almost overwhelming. The Clansman sensed her inner turmoil, for his gaze sharpened as he studied her face.

"What is it Jordan?" Duncan asked gently with a concerned look on his face. An excellent opportunity to unburden herself to the Highlander; Jordan opened her mouth to speak.

"I need a bath." The woman said.

"We all do." Duncan said wryly. "Unfortunately, it'll have to wait until Legolas returns, then we'll see if we can get you one, Jordie. Gimli might know of a good watering hole to refill our canteens and get a bath. I'll ask." The Highlander said.

"

"Sounds like a plan, Duncan." Jordan replied. The Chieftain's Son gave her an affectionate grin before going to check on the others.

_Stupid coward! _Jordan's mind mockingly sneered at her as she watched the Clansman's broad back retreat.

Having the Highlander by her side virtually every sleeping and waking moment was a convenient excuse to continue to avoid the matter of Legolas' proposal. In Rivendell, Duncan insisted upon staying within the young Immortal's quarters; she in the bed, and the Highlander on a cot thoughtfully provided by Ceallach out on the balcony. If she did get a respite from her Teacher, then it was the Watcher's turn to play nursemaid.

The young Immortal kicked a stone out of her way as she continued to inwardly curse her cowardice. Jordan did have several opportunities to steal away, to speak privately with the Elf. With a sense of unease, the woman knew she could have made the time. Instead, she allowed herself to be sequestered by her Mentor and his Watcher. The Elf deserved an answer. Jordan knew she was deliberately running away from the issue at hand, unwilling to make a decision. Either way, someone would get hurt. The question was: who?

The youngest Immortal vowed she'd work up the courage to deal with all the problematic males in her life soon. Feeling a little better about her decision, Jordan stretched her legs and studied the landscape. The mountains in the distance loomed tall and majestic; she gazed out at the wind swept, wide-open plains; there were hardly any trees, but plenty of hills, knolls, crags and flat areas. In the distance, the mountain ranges loomed tall, proud and seemingly insurmountable. Apparently this area, semi-sheltered by a rocky outcrop on three sides, was to be their campsite.

"Come on, horsie – nice horsie. Come with me . . . please." Jordan said coaxingly to the beast.

It took several gentle, tentative tugs on the reins before the beast willingly cooperated. Leading the horse closer to where the Watcher and the Dwarf were setting up the campfire, Jordan began undoing the leather knots securing her and Duncan's sleep rolls, looking up occasionally at the elder Immortals as snippets of their conversation floated to her when the wind changed direction.

"MacLeod, a little help here would be nice." The Eldest called.

"Shoe's on the other foot now, eh?" Duncan said with a grin.

"Are you still upset about Bree . . . ?" Methos answered with a grimace

"Whatever gave you that idea, Adam?" the younger Immortal asked.

"Just get over here, will you?" The Oldest retorted.

The Clansman grinned as he helped the Ancient One unload supplies from the horses. Whatever else the Highlander said caused Methos to smile wryly as the Eldest divested himself of his long, dark coat. The Ancient glanced around, searching for a suitable place to lay it down. Finally deciding a large boulder would do, Methos laid it down; a muffled clank could be heard as the sword – and other weapons hidden in its folds hit the rock. Stooping slightly, the Eldest rearranged the folds to disguise the odd stiffness in the fabric where his Ivanhoe was nestled. Adam Pierson. Another person she had put off dealing with.

_Talk about burning the candle at both ends!_ Jordan thought ruefully to herself.

Watching her fellow Immortals, the woman could not help but compare them. Adam and Duncan. Polar opposites – Adam was as pale as the Highlander was swarthy, his leaner build more akin to an underfed graduate student next to Duncan's muscular bulk. Jordan knew all too well that it was merely a carefully crafted illusion. Adam's physique, though often hidden beneath the loose, bulky sweaters he favored, was in reality, hard and sleek, his muscles long and lean, like that of a runner . . . and no less powerful than the Scot.

_Almost like Legolas'_ Jordan's mind supplied automatically.

The woman mentally shook herself, wondering where that line of thought came from. With an uncanny sense of timing, Adam looked up and gave her a boyish grin, the expression softening the sharp planes of his patrician features; Jordan quickly looked away. That charming, shy smile, complete with a rare flash of dimples, brought back memories she tried so hard to (but could not entirely) forget.

From across his horse's back, Methos' grin widened as he watched Jordan quickly looked away. With a nod in her direction, the Ancient One addressed the Highlander.

"How is she doing, MacLeod?"

"Not bad; better than I thought. Still isn't much for horses, though." Duncan replied.

The Eldest merely continued to work silently. The Highlander paused and observed his friend thoughtfully; since they arrived in Rivendell, he realized the Elder Immortal had pretty much kept to himself, not speaking, unless it was absolutely necessary.

"You don't have much to say." The Highlander commented. Methos shrugged.

"Between the Dwarf and Dawson, there's not much left to say." The Ancient One said with a sardonic grin.

The Highlander simply grinned. Duncan was in such a good mood; he didn't think anything could spoil it. The younger Immortal was looking forward to the evening, for it meant they were that much closer to their destination and home – this time, with Jordan. With a glance in his Student's direction, the Highlander saw she hadn't finished unloading their horse.

"I'll help her unpack." Duncan said.

"Knock yourself out, MacLeod." Methos replied without looking up from his work.

"You're in a mood." Duncan commented. His Elder did not reply. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Duncan turned away.

"Need help, Jordie?" The Highlander called.

With one hand resting on the horse's neck, Jordan peered at her Mentor from under the beast's head.

"No thank you, Duncan – I'll be fine." The youngest Immortal called back, waving him away.

Keeping busy meant she had less time to think about her personal crises. The Immortals paused mid-task when they felt the wash of awareness as the other Immortal approached. Soon Legolas and his mount cantered into view. Jordan watched her lover with longing eyes. There was so much between them that remained unsaid. With a sigh, she reluctantly looked away, only to see Adam watching her. Jordan ducked her head down, and pretended to concentrate on her task. She didn't dare look up again.

"Well, that didn't take long." Methos commented to the Highlander.

"Middle-earth equivalent to 'fast food', eh?" The Clansman quipped

"Give me a menu any time of the day." Methos said.

"Lost your taste for the great outdoors?" The younger Immortal quipped. Methos gave the younger Immortal a withering look.

"What I haven't lost is my taste for a nice, thick, juicy steak with all the trimmings and a chilled bottle of chardonnay." The Eldest said.

Duncan laughed; he, on the other hand, was actually was enjoying himself. Hunting the old way with bow, arrow, spears and traps brought back many bittersweet memories of long ago, most notably when Highlander's wanderings brought him to an American Indian village in the mountain vastness of the Pacific Northwest. There, Duncan lived with the beautiful widowed squaw, Little Deer, and her son, his adopted brave, Kahani, until the entire village was massacred by the Immortal Kern, who was working as a Confederate scout for the cavalry. It took several centuries, but Kern eventually paid for that deed in spades.

The Immortals continued their lighthearted bantering as they prepared for the night. Legolas set down the brace of ptarmigan near the Watcher and continued on his way to Jordan's side.

"Looks like we're on kitchen patrol tonight, Gimli." Joe informed the Dwarf.

Gimli grunted; he had no idea what the Man was talking about – nor how he would patrol with his limp. Frankly, he did not think Joe up to the task.

"I meant its our turn to cook." Joe clarified as he drove two 'Y' shaped branches on either side of the fire pit with a heavy rock.

"Well why did you not say so?" Gimli asked.

"I just did!" Joe cried with an exasperated look.

"You speak strangely."

"You should talk!" Joe muttered loud enough for Jordan to hear.

"What's that?" Gimli asked.

"You shouldn't do that" Joe said. Gimli had unstopped the waterskins and placed them next to the supporting branches.

"I know what I'm doing!" Gimli insisted; no sooner had he spoken, than the skins tipped over, spilling the contents.

"Son of an Orc !" the Dwarf cursed as he hurried to save the remaining water. Joe wisely said nothing; instead, he busied himself with the brace of ptarmigan. He hadn't had to dress a bird since days spent in the sweltering jungles and abandoned villages of Vietnam, where they had to chase the scrawny chickens left behind when the villages abandoned their villages in search of refuge and safety.

_Better let the experts deal with this._ The Watcher thought to himself.

"Hey Mac! Can you do something with these?" The Watcher said, holding the birds up.

"Be there in a sec, Joe." The Highlander answered.

"Jordie, set our rolls over here when you get a chance, would you? Your spot's over there." Duncan said, gesturing to a prime sheltered place. The Highlander went to help with the dinner preparations before something else could go wrong. Jordan smiled to herself as she hoisted her bedroll.

"Yes, Duncan." Jordan answered. Contemplating what the evening would hold, the woman was startled to hear Legolas' voice behind her.

"Let me help you, Meleth nín (my love)." The Elf said.

Turning to face the Elf, Jordan looked up at the Mirkwood Elf with a tentative smile on her face. Blue eyes searched green; both wondering what the other was thinking; Legolas' strong, elegant hand closed over hers, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze before easily removing Duncan's bedroll from the horse's back.

"Thank you." The Immortal said.

"We will speak tonight." Legolas quietly said.

He had been patient. The rest of their lives could wait no longer wait. They would speak of their Binding tonight. Jordan nodded in silent agreement. From a short distance away, Methos took it all in, his face impassive. As he continued to observe the pair, Legolas' eyes met Methos' unflinching gaze and held it, before the Mirkwood Prince turned and walked away.

Perched atop the highest crag, the Elf half-listened to the conversations below him as he scanned the horizon. Mindful of Elfhelm's words, the Elf's eyes searched the flatlands before him for signs of danger; below him, the campsite was prepared, the sleeping arrangements made, and dinner was cooking – something everyone was looking forward to; lifting the lid, Gimli peered inside; the stew was bubbling nicely, but it was much too thick for the stout fellow's liking. Tipping his water skin to the pot, the son of Glóin frowned when nothing came out of it; upending it, the Dwarf gave the skin a few hard shakes.

"Blast!" the Dwarf grumbled.

"Something wrong, Gimli?" Jordan asked. The Immortal was in the middle of preparing her pallet for the night.

"I'm out of water!" Gimli muttered.

"I'll get the water." Methos quickly volunteered. "If you'll tell me where to get to it." The Immortal added.

"Well, there's a good laddie." Gimli said; filling waterskins – although very important, was the least of his favorite chores to do.

_Just as long as you don't pat me on the head._ The Ancient One thought to himself.

"Hey, way to step up to the plate, Adam." Duncan smirked as he tossed his water skin to the Eldest, who caught it.

"Anything for a friend, MacLeod." Methos said amiably with a benign smile. He turned away before the younger Immortal could attach a different meaning to his words.

"The Adorn River is one mile south from here." Gimli said, squinting up at the tall, pale Man.

"One mile south; fine. I'll water the horses while I'm there; see you in a little bit." Methos said.

Collecting the rest of the skins, the Immortal secured the leathern vessels to his mount and set about rounding up the rest of the horses; the Eldest swung into the saddle and trotted away with the other horses in tow. Legolas watched the Son-of-Pier ride off, with a frown on his fair face.

"Why do I always find myself in these positions?" The Immortal asked aloud.

Methos squinted up at the sun as he muttered under his breath. The horses drank their fill, and were grazing a short distance away. A cold breeze nipped at the Immortal as he knelt by the stream. The Ancient One finished topping off all but one water skin; saving Jordan's for last, Methos held the neck in the quickwater; bored, he watched as it filled it halfway, then hesitated. Thoughtfully, the Immortal stared at his reflection ripple and waver in the water as it flowed by.

"Am I doing the right thing?" Methos asked his reflection. His likeness frowned back.

_I manipulate people. I'm good at that, and I know it. I lie, I keep secrets . . . there is power in secrets that you keep. I only divulge only what I must to elicit to reaction I want. That skill has kept me alive for quite a while. _Methos thought to himself.

The Ancient One thought back to another time, long past, when he followed his instincts. . . .

: _Change and decay. It was inevitable. The Ancient One watched as, like the cycles of the moon, the world powers waxed and waned: after Babylon came Media-Persia. After Media-Persia, Greece. After Greece, the juggernaut that was the mighty Roman Empire emerged; seemingly invincible, it's over taking of the surrounding kingdoms sure as the sun rose; no nation could long stand before its mighty legions and the brilliant military strategies of its Generals. At the pace the Empire was advancing, the Ancient One knew Rome would soon extend its considerable reach towards Egypt. Though his wanderings had taken him to the farthest reaches of the known lands, the land of golden sand held a special place in the Immortal's heart. _

_More often than not, Methos was content to simply watch Mortals struggle, to see how the events around him would unfold. Occasionally, the First One dabbled in the affairs of Men from his time spent in the Roman Senate, through cunning maneuvers, hard political calculations, and several key assassinations, the Ancient One became involved, manipulating events, whose effects would be felt through history, like the ripples caused by one drop of water. After the death of Alexander the Great, his Generals divided the Empire amongst themselves. Following his instincts, the Methos (acting as Ptolemy's advisor) urged the General to claim Egypt as his share of the divided Roman Empire; Ptolemy did as the Eldest suggested, and, after making Alexandria the capital of Egypt, ruled Egypt as Ptolemy I Soter. _

_It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for the Roman General-turned-Pharoah, Egypt. . . and the Immortal. Because of Ptolemy's love of learning, scholars, artisans and other academic men and women, made Alexandria a haven of learning. In time, the collective intellectual efforts resulted in the advent of the Library. At last, Methos' curiosity about the world was somewhat satisfied, his thirst for knowledge (awakened by Merlin) momentarily slaked; the Immortal stayed on in Egypt, where many years were spent in the Library, learning more about the world. The Eldest lingered, reluctant to leave. Finally, he was forced to depart the land of his birth before it was noticed by his peers that he had not aged. This time, the Immortal left Alexandria and returned to Rome with a sense of pride and satisfaction, for under the Ptolemaic Dynasty, Alexandria had become the cultural and economic hub of the ancient world. It was also during the next three centuries that Ptolemy's descendents held Egypt in sway, ruling as Pharaohs, becoming one with their adopted land. _

_The Eldest returned to Alexandria when those with those whom he had mingled with had passed away, or entered their second childhood, when their claims of knowing Methos when they were young that he was unchanged since their youth were met with knowing looks and indulgent winks. By then, knowledge had increased, and the Immortal continued to walk with and learn from men and women whose intellectual contributions were preserved by history. _

_The winds of change were blowing again. The days of the Ptolemaic Dynasty's were numbered, the glory days of Egypt all but faded; the Immortal knew the only way to help his homeland through the coming political strife, was to somehow unite it with the Roman Empire's might. The Immortal was wondering how to achieve this when the fates smiled upon him. _

_Methos always kept abreast of the political happenings surrounding him, especially if it concerned his homeland; through his contacts within the Senate, the Centurions and from Caesar himself, the Ancient One knew the Dynasty he helped to establish was ready to fall to the Roman Empire unless the Immortal intervened once more._

_Methos knew choice tidbits of information that history failed to record like how tall Nero actually was. He had seen Helen of Troy's face up close and personal; contrary to popular belief, Helen's face wasn't that great – and it only launched a couple hundred not a thousand ships. The Immortal also knew Caesar's favorite food was not salad; rather, it was antelope and both the teats and udder of a sow, pickled in the pungent, fermented fish sauce, garum. Unfortunately, the sow's teats did not agree with Caesar, and when he overindulged in his favorite foodstuffs and needed immediate relief, the Ancient One often helped the groaning famed dictator to the vomitorium, only to return to the feast and repeat the pugnacious cycle until the wee hours of the dawn. After eating a 17 course meal where honey covered ants and peacock brains were the main garnishes, eating, drinking and vomiting was basically life in ancient Rome – at least for the well to do. _

_Methos seized the opportunity to accompany Caesar when he casually mentioned to the Immortal that he planned to journey to Alexandria; after setting up camp and receiving the latest word from the Generals under Caesar, in the dead of night, Methos slipped away. Disguised as a slave, the Eldest infiltrated the royal palace, and with little trouble, Cleopatra VII's chambers. What he found was quite enlightening; Methos was greatly surprised to discover Cleopatra to be (for a woman), quite brilliant – fluent in nine languages (unfortunately, Latin was not one of them) the Immortal recognized her potential for greatness; not only was she an excellent business woman, the Ptolemaic woman held a genuine respect for Caesar. _

_Knowing time was of the essence, before Rome's legions could strike, the Ancient One decided Cleopatra and Caesar should meet. Her sharp intelligence and quick wit would be a worthy match for the Roman dictator. Apparently, great minds think alike, for the Eldest learned the Hellinistic queen was seeking an audience with Caesar; however, every attempt was thwarted – if only she could get past enemy lines to the dictator! It was Methos' suggestion that Cleopatra hide herself in a roll of carpet to be delivered to Caesar; the Ptolemaic queen did as the Immortal suggested, and the rest, as they say, was history. Unfortunately, Cleopatra's bid to become the Empress of the world was cut short with her unexpected suicide. Alas, all the Immortal's hard work was wasted – depending on how one chose to look at it_. :

The splash of a fish leaping out of the water brought the Immortal back to the present. Studying the skin he held in his hand, the Immortal stared at the Elvish designs stamped around the body of the skin. Rivendell. Eyes narrowed in thought, the Ancient One pursed his lips as his mind wandered back to the feast the Peredhil gave, shortly before their departure. . .

: _Lounging in the balcony doorway with the Watcher, Methos watched the other guest; searching the crowd, the Eldest saw that Jordan and her Teacher still had yet to arrive. _

"_Y'know, I think I'm actually gonna miss this place." Joe commented._

Too bad we can't stay longer_. The Eldest regretfully thought to himself. _

_Save for the irritatingly ever-present Buzz, every day spent with the Elves (legends of a different sort – and in the flesh, no less) left the Ancient One with a sense of frustrated exhilaration; the Immortal's thirst for learning, awakened by Merlin, was once again whetted by the Peredhil. Since their arrival, after touring Imladris with Jordan, the Wood Elf and Dwarf, the Eldest, the Highlander and the Watcher spent a great portion of their days in Elrond's library, poring over the maps of Middle-earth, planning their journey's route with Prince Legolas and Master Gimli, who were to act as their guides to the White City. To be in such a room filled with volumes of bound tomes written in Elvish, to handle the maps in such pristine, mint condition left the Eldest with a profound sense of loss. There was so much to learn from Elrond, and virtually no time in which to do it. That point was made painfully clear, as the night's feast signaled many partings, for the Outlanders, as well as the Sons of Elrond, would leave on the morrow. It amused the Immortal to hear the wistful note in the Watcher's voice. _

"_Really—why's that?" Methos asked._

"_Oh, I dunno; it's different. Kinda like living in a fairy tale." _

Every tale has an end . ._ . the Eldest cynically thought to himself._

"_Will you miss it enough to give up 'Le Blues'? Or Hi-Def television with a good baseball game going, an ice-cold beer in one hand and a remote in the other?" Methos inquired with a wry smile. The Watcher remained silent for all of three seconds as he considered the question._

"_Hell, no! When you put it that way, there's really no choice, Adam!" Joe said with a grin._

"_I knew you'd see it my way." Methos said with a bland grin before he returned to surveying the room. _

_The Ancient One's eyes were drawn to the fair head that stood out like a beacon. Feeling eyes upon him, Legolas turned and met Methos' gaze. For a moment, the immortals stared at each before Methos inclined his head in greeting. The Golden Elf acknowledged the Immortal as well, but turned with the rest of the Elves towards the doorway expectantly. Taking his cue from the Elves, the Eldest straightened and nodded towards the doorway._

"_Look alive, Joe. Time to greet the One that feeds us." Methos said._

"_Are we late?" A familiar voice asked._

_The Eldest and the Watcher turned to see the Highlander and his Student linked arm-in-arm directly behind them._

"_Fashionably so. What took you so long?" the older Immortal asked._

"_Where'd you come from?" Joe's question rode on the tail end of the Ancient One._

"_This little lady was late getting ready and the balcony steps. Jordie knows a short cut here." Duncan replied, answering both questions at once. _

"_Duncan!" Jordan exclaimed indignantly._

"_Oh, excuse me – we were really late because she can't tell time very well." Duncan said with a perfectly straight face._

"_Duncan!" This time the youngest Immortal's outburst was accompanied by a swat on the Highlander's arm; the Chieftain's Son made his arm limp, feigning injury._

"_I'll wait for you anytime, Jordie." Joe gallantly said, as he offered her his arm._

"_Why thank you, Joe." The woman said sweetly, before she turned to mock- glare at her Mentor._

"_Me, too." Methos added. _

"_Thank you." Jordan said politely, with a strained smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Both the Watcher and the Highlander raised an eyebrow at that. _

"_What? I felt left out." The elder Immortal said with a woeful look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders._

"_C'mon, Jordie, what d'you say we leave these knuckleheads behind, hmm?" Joe suggested with a roguish grin._

_The young Immortal's smile was all the answer the Watcher needed as she tucked her hand firmly within the crook of his arm. Behind them, the older Immortals smiled at one another and fell in step behind their companions to greet their host. Lord Elrond entered, followed closely by the Princes Elladan and Elrohir. The Peredhil's timeless eyes roamed over the gathering of Elves until his gaze rested on those he sought. _

_As he contemplated his strange guests, Elrond noticed that Adam, Son-of-Pier, the slightly tallest of the three Men who spoke the Elvish tongue, was more reluctant to follow his companions' lead in not wearing the long outer jerkin. On this very night, Adam, was first seen wearing his long coat, but was reported to have returned to his quarters, to later re-appear without his long coat. Joe, the one who had taken ill, did not wear such a garment. Instead, his waistcoat bore an unusual pattern resembling boxes, whose lines were of varying shades of gray and black. _

_Elrond's eyes lingered on the man with the oddly stilted, unusual stride. Thanks in large part to the Healer's Skill, the Son-of-Daw made a remarkably quick recovery. Læurenthail and Elrond, as they had done with the Lady Jordan upon her arrival, had inspected the sickly one, and wondered together in amazement at the Man's lower limbs. They were unbending save at the hinged part at what should have been the man's knee. In fact, the unnatural lower limbs bore an astonishing resemblance to the man's missing limbs. The Peredhil recognized the strange, circular mark upon the inside of the Man's left wrist, a mark whose meaning the Elf-Lord did not understand, but first encountered when he touched the Leaf 'round the Lady Jordan's neck. There was definitely more to his unusual guests than meets the eye, and more questions, than answers. _

_After exchanging greetings with their Host and his sons, the Outlanders wandered back outside and stood talking quietly amongst themselves, sometimes in the language none in Imladris had heard before – not by him, his sons or the Dúnedain who accompanied them back from the village of Bree. _

_From his seat between Joe and Breiric the Ranger, the Ancient One looked across the table where the Highlander sat next to his Student. Gimli the Dwarf was seated between Jordan and the blonde Elf. Because the Watcher was at the Ancient One's left, Jordan had to look in Methos' general direction; when the Horseman asked the woman direct questions that necessitated a reply, she had no choice but to answer. Once, when the Eldest looked up, their gazes met and briefly held before Jordan flushed and quickly looked away. Keeping a bland impression on his face, Methos' hazel eyes roamed over her face, remembering a time when she had looked at him with great admiration and deep affection; unfortunately, that was years ago. _

_Methos continued to watch Jordan throughout the meal as he listened quietly to the conversations around him. Apparently Lord Elrond's sons were planning to leave shortly, despite their father's earnest and tactful protests. Though his limp was barely noticeable, at the Peredhil's request, it was decided that the Ranger would rendezvous with the twin Lords when he was completely healed of his wound. However, whether it was pre-arranged or by silent consent of the parties gathered, talk of the Outlanders' return to their own land was not brought up – which was fine by Methos, as long as they left Rivendell soon. Each night spent in the Elven realm found the Ancient One becoming increasingly weary. Conditioned for so long to flee when the Buzz was felt, the journey home would be a relief in more ways than one. With that comforting thought in mind, the Eldest sat back in his chair and listened contentedly to the music softly playing in the background, for it brought back pleasant memories of Camelot. . . and Anaeia._

_When the meal concluded, the Ruler granted the diners his leave, and bade his guests to enjoy themselves at the dessert tables that were set back from the edge of the dance floor. Glad for the chance to get up and walk around, Methos waited for Joe. When they first arrived, Methos was used to the curious glances sent their way. Since then, the Immortals had ceased to attract attention, and though treated with the utmost hospitality, the Ancient One noticed there were several whose eyes were constantly on them, and most noticeably, the Highlander and his Student. _

_"Feel like dessert, Joe?" Methos asked the Watcher._

_"Why not? I wouldn't mind watching the Elven lovelies, either." Joe replied. _

_"Keep it in your pants, Joe." The Ancient One warned jokingly as they followed the Highlander. _

_"Hey, the pot's calling the kettle black, eh?" Joe shot back. _

_"Just calling a spade a spade." Methos replied smoothly._

_Standing in a semi-circle at the edge of the dance floor, the Immortals and Watchers made small talk as they observed the Elves dance. Though Jordan felt Adam's gaze on her, the woman determinedly kept her attention elsewhere. _

_"Dessert anyone?" Methos asked._

_"Yeah, I think I'll get some." Duncan said._

_"Nah – changed my mind; I'll pass." Joe replied._

"_Jordan?" The Ancient One asked; Methos' golden-green gaze locked with the young Immortal's._

_"No. Thank you." She answered, forcing a polite smile on her face. _

_Despite her poker face (which had improved slightly since their time together in Paris), Methos knew she wasn't unaffected as she strived to portray, for her eyes were darker in color than normal a dead giveaway despite her flat expression. As _

_Methos and the Highlander wandered over to the dessert table; the Eldest deliberately placed himself within Jordan's direct line of vision. There was no way she could not see him. Taking his time, the Eldest thoughtfully perused the Elvish sweetmeats and confections, inwardly amused with the fact that the woman was determined to ignore him. Methos decided he and Jordan would have to speak soon; she could not continue ignoring him, and it would become increasingly difficult once they began their journey._

_As for the woman, it took all her will power to not stare at Adam; Jordan did her best to keep her face expressionless as the older Immortal watched her from the dessert table especially since her Elven lover stood with the twin Lords not too far away. When the Immortals returned, as Duncan conversed with the Watcher, Adam deliberately stood in front of Jordan. Picking up a plump strawberry, Adam held it before her. _

"_Jordan?" The Eldest asked quietly._

"_No. Thank you." she replied expressionlessly_

"_Suit yourself." Methos answered, slowly biting into the juicy berry._

_Methos continued to watch her face as he chewed the fruit; Jordan could feel her face starting to grow warmer as she glared up at him. Brushing past the Ancient One, Jordan grabbed Duncan's hand and tugged the Scot towards the floor._

"_Hey !" the Highlander exclaimed._

_"Come on, Duncan – let's dance." She asked cajolingly. Balancing his plate precariously, her Teacher protested._

"_Jordie, I'm eating!"_

"_Finish it later – dance with me!" she wheedled as she took his plate._

"_You don't mind holding this, do you?" the young Immortal asked the Ancient One, without looking directly at him._

_The woman gave Duncan a winning smile as she thrust the Highlander's plate towards the Ancient One, pushing it into the oldest Immortal's chest harder than necessary. Jordan's smile slipped a notch when Methos' fingers deliberately caressed her hand beneath the plate. As an afterthought, the Ancient One gave the woman his best boyish grin; Methos decided if he wanted to have a civil conversation with Jordan, he'd best accomplish it by not provoking her further. _

"_I don't know the steps, Jordie." Duncan said._

"_That's never stopped you before. Besides, I'll teach you the steps!" Jordan insisted as she turned towards her Mentor. _

"_Fine, fine!" the Highlander said as she dragged him away. _

_Excited for the rare opportunity to teach her Mentor something new, Jordan took the Highlander's hand and led him to the dance floor. Timing it so they joined the gracefully twirling Elves, the woman and the Scotsman worked their way towards the centre of floor, where it was clear of dancers. From the sidelines, Joe turned towards his friend._

"_What was that all about?" Joe asked, plucking a honey coated morsel from the Highlander's plate._

"_Oh, that?" Methos asked with a slightly embarrassed grin on his aristocratic features._

"'_Watching's' what I do, Old Man; even if I didn't, that stain on your shirt would've given it away." Came the cheeky response._

_Looking down at his tunic, Methos saw the cream and bright red berry glaze was smeared across the front of his tunic. Handing his plate to the Watcher, the Eldest took his napkin and carefully blotted up as much of the dessert as he could._

"_Smart ass." The Immortal muttered._

_Joe's grin just got wider before he turned his attention to back to the dance floor and his charge. Smiling up at the Highlander, Jordan showed him the steps; their laughter mingled when the Highlander, normally a graceful and adept dancer, faltered occasionally. With an indulgent smile, Duncan accepted Jordan's lead, but soon it became clear that he was merely humouring her; he did not need his Student's help to guide her thru the intricate Elvish dance. Pouting when he followed her steps easily, Jordan smiled again when her Teacher raised her chin and tapped his forehead against hers. Soon Duncan swept her into the whirling edge to join the Elves, dancing Jordan around the floor twice before moving them back to the centre of the floor, where he changed the steps into a waltz. _

"_So, what do you really think of this place, Joe?" Methos asked._

"_Nice gig, but I wouldn't wanna stay. Know what I mean?" the Watcher replied, turning to look at his friend._

"_Yeah. I know exactly how you feel." _

"_Joe, you ever notice how Prince Legolas hardly takes his eyes off Jordan?"_

"_Yeah, so?" the Watcher grunted; he was only half-listening to the Immortal. The Watcher decided he would do his best to have the Head Healer check him out before they left – just to make sure he was fit to travel, of course. Following the Watcher's gaze, Methos saw the Elvish Healer was returning the Joe's interested gaze as well. Exasperated, the Immortal clucked his tongue and would've wagged his finger, but he did not with to interrupt whatever was transpiring between the Elf-maiden and the Watcher. _

"_Don't you think its . . . odd?"_

"_Nah; he's probably doin' that whole 'damsel in distress' bit."_

"_Well, let's hope that's all there is to it." Methos said. Apparently, that got the Watcher's attention, for he turned towards the Immortal, giving him his undivided attention._

"_What're you saying?" Joe asked._

"_That for a Watcher, you sure aren't being very observant."  
_

"_I'm watching Mac, and – wait a minute – are you implying that Jordie and Goldilocks . . . ! Nah."_

"_All I'm saying is that he's always close by."_

"_So what it's no big deal, Adam. In case you haven't noticed, Jordie's not exactly ugly."_

"_If you say so." The Ancient replied, not commenting on Joe's last statement._

_Methos watched the Highlander dance with his Student, whirling Jordan around the dance floor, effortlessly and gracefully. The Ancient One waited, gathering his courage to cut in. Though he wished to speak with her alone, there never seemed to be the right time, and the Eldest wished to come to some sort of understanding before they left Rivendell. It would be awkward to travel together and not speak. Methos could just imagine what the Watcher's opinion on the matter would be. Deciding it was time to tie up loose ends, Methos handed the dessert plates to a passing servant. The Ancient took a deep breath before turning to the Watcher._

_"Here I go."_

_"Where're you goin'?" Joe asked, suspicious._

_"To dance with a pretty lady." The Eldest said innocently._

_"Adam . . . " the younger Man's warning was lost on the Eldest._

_"Wish me luck, Joe." _

_"It's your funeral." Joe muttered with a shake of his head. _

_"Don't take too long with the shovel, eh?" The Immortal tossed over his shoulder as he sauntered away._

_Joe sighed, not bothering to watch as his friend cut in on the Clansman and the younger Immortal's dance, knowing he'd get the details eventually; instead, he decided to check out the barrels from which the Elves were dispensing several different types of beverages – just in case his expertise in the area was required. Maybe he'd get lucky and run into the gorgeous Elf-maiden-Healer. Making his way towards the Highlander and his Student, Methos tapped Duncan on the shoulder._

_"May I?" the Ancient One asked._

_"Of course." Duncan replied._

_"Couldn't find a partner, Adam?" The Clansman muttered under his breath before he released Jordan._

_"I just did, MacLeod." Methos retorted as he assumed the Highlander's place._

_Leaning away from him, Methos' large hand in the middle of her back pulled her closer as the Immortal led her in a waltz. Silently they danced; their long, gliding steps were in perfect unison._

_"Smile, Jordan; anyone watching would think you don't want to dance with me." The Immortal said pleasantly as he watched her face. _

_"I don't." the woman stonily replied, trying to ignore the scent of Adam's skin. _

_If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe they were back in Paris . . .as he continued to guide her across the room, Methos suddenly lowered Jordan towards the ground in a deep dip. Jordan's eyes widened in surprise as she gripped his shoulders – her other choice was to fall to the ground. The Immortal's lips brushed lightly across her cheek._

_"You didn't always feel that way." Methos murmured quietly near her ear._

_Jordan turned her head sharply to glare at him; that was a mistake, for it brought their faces close together, their lips just inches apart, close enough for the young Immortal to see the golden flecks in the Ancient One's hazel eyes. In fact, Methos' nose almost touched Jordan's. Jordan felt the same twinge of attraction that first drew her to him; Adam still possessed the ability to stir her. Before she had a chance to react, the Eldest raised the woman once more and continued to waltz her around the room. _

_"I do now." Jordan said, leaning away from him; once again, the Eldest pulled her closer._

Impertinent, senseless child. Obstinate girl. Brat. _Methos thought to himself. _

_The Oldest was about to smile, amused, when he thought better of it. Instead, Methos sighed as he waltzed the woman around the room. As they danced to the music, the Eldest noticed the Golden Elf watching them. _

Interesting_. Methos thought to himself. _

_Methos pondered the Crown Prince. The Sindarin assassin's graceful movements couldn't be termed feminine, for it exuded power and strength that was tinged with confidence. The Eldest recognized the arrogance forged in battle, which, however, was tempered with experience. The accomplishments of the Golden Elf were recounted in the text he'd copied; to the best of his recollection, nothing else was written of the noble Elf, other than that he had built a boat and sailed into the West with the Dwarf. Methos wondered why the Prince did not rule his father's woodland realm, or if the Mirkwood Prince ever married and had elflings. _

_What he did not particularly care for was the way the Elf's blue eyes followed Jordan's movements. During the meal, every time the young Immortal glanced at the Mirkwood Prince, a slight blush crept into her cheeks; despite the fact that the Elf's serene expression hardly changed, the Eldest noted how the cerulean gaze followed Jordan, and how she gave him an apologetic look before leaving with the big Scot. Methos saw how the Elf continued to watch Jordan – how he seldom looked away from her. _

Is there something going on between you two?_ Methos wondered; he decided to keep his suspicions to himself. For now. : _

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Initially unwelcome, but now, oddly, the Highlander became a compelling and necessary part of Methos' life. The younger Immortal, despite the many Quickenings he'd earned, remained fundamentally unchanged. Great courage, insight, wisdom, humanity, kindness – qualities Duncan possessed were qualities Methos envied and admired. The aforesaid, the Eldest believed, were the source of the Clansman's strength, what enabled the Chieftain's Son to overcome the fierce battle of heart, soul and will with the demon, Ahriman. The Highlander had weathered more than his fair share of heartaches: the loss of Tessa, his love, the unintentional murder of his student, Richie . . . the horror visited upon him, and the resulting actions visited upon the Scotsman by the Dark Quickening. Eventually, even Joe would be taken by time and death . . . and now Jordan. Over time, Duncan had come to the oldest man, seeking his aid; when it suited him, Methos freely gave it. When he deemed it necessary, the Ancient One intervened in the younger Immortal's life, whether he was aware of it or not, whether he wanted it or not. The Highlander would have someone he cherished close to him, hadn't Methos seen to that? And it would stay that way; he would see to it as well.

The oldest man was devious and complex, his motives hidden under layer after layer of subtle manipulation. Methos was good at manipulating people. Given his remarkably long life, the Ancient One ought to be; he knew the power in secrets that were kept, divulging only what he must to achieve his endgame. The Ancient One reached into his overcoat and extracted the little pouch; loosening the strings, the Immortal added several generous pinches of the pale, golden powder to Jordan's water skin, despite the fact his conscience was shrieking protest.

Guilt – the damned, useless emotion! The Immortal regretted ever picking it up again. Firmly pushing the cork in place, the Immortal gave Jordan's water skin several good shakes to mix the contents.

_Anything for a friend._ The Immortal reminded himself.

"There. That should do." The Ancient One said.

Slinging the water skins over his shoulders, the Eldest made a few adjustments and began to whistle to himself as he prepared the waterskins and horses for the return trip back to camp.

After returning the water skins to their respective owners, the Ancient One joined the Clansman; the older Immortals began sharpening their swords in companionable silence as Jordan, the Dwarf and the Watcher prepared to serve the meal. Gimli set his water skin by his pallet and returned to help distribute the bowls of stew Jordan ladled out, as Joe ripped flatbread apart and placed it atop the stew. The youngest Immortal stopped mid ladle when she heard Gimli grumbling under his breath.

"What's the matter, Gimi?" she asked.

"I left me water skin by me pallet; now I'm thirsty. I doona want to get it, but I suppose I must, if I wish to drink." He replied grumpily.

"Here, we can fix that. I have the technology." Jordan said with a smile; unlike the others, the woman left her water skin by her side; putting the bowl and ladle down, the Immortal uncorked her skin, filled a clean, empty bowl and offered it to the Dwarf.

"My thanks." Gimli said, reaching for it. The Dwarf gulped the liquid down; the son of Gloin sighed with relief as the cool liquid sluiced down his throat.

"Gimli." Jordan began.

"Aye, Lass?" the Dwarf grunted as he held the bowl out for her.

"Will . . . do you think Legolas will join us tonight?" the Immortal ventured as she ladled out more stew.

Gimli squinted up at Jordan with a crafty look in his eye. Since they began their journey, the Dwarf could tell that matters between his pointy-eared friend and his Lady were becoming even more strained. Usually, Legolas would sing; the fact that his friend remained silent was not a good sign. The son of Glóin interpreted the fact that Jordan was scarcely with the Elf as a portent of ill tidings just waiting to occur.

Towards early evening, after dinner was eaten, the dishes cleaned and prepared for the morning meal, the little party took turns going to the stream to wash in the chilly water. Waiting for Adam and Joe to return to camp, Jordan helped the Dwarf prepare for the morning meal. She placed the cleaned ptarmigan eggs close to the frying pan, and set a sizeable portion of dried meat strips to soak in water overnight for their breakfast. Stifling several yawns, Jordan mentally shook herself.

_Wake up!_ Jordan told herself; strangely, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay awake. The Buzz of Adam's return helped revive her a bit, but only just barely.

"The water's damned frigid! I'll be glad to get back to civilization, I've had enough of this damned lack of indoor plumbing!" Joe complained. His close-cropped silver and pepper hair spiked out in different directions, still damp from his bath.

"It wasn't that bad, Joe." Methos said as he tethered their horse for the night. Cold was the Atlantic, trapped in a rowboat with singing Monks, or China in the winter.

"It was bad enough!" Joe retorted

"C'mon Jordie – we'd better go while there's still light. Who knows if the moon will be bright enough tonight." Duncan said; the Clansman had the other horses' reins in his hands, ready to water them for the night.

"Are you going to refill your skin, Duncan?" Jordan asked, holding both his and hers aloft.

"Might as well; always a good idea to keep them topped off." The Highlander replied.

"Gimi, are you coming with us?" she asked.

"Nay, Lass, I'll wait until we get to the Golden Hall." The Dwarf replied.

Jordan and the Highlander looked at each other. Shrugging his shoulders, Duncan rounded up the other horses to be watered for the night, and swung onto his mount bareback. Urging the beast over to a group of boulders, the Highlander waited for his student.

"We'll make a rider out of you, yet, Jordie." Duncan said with a smile, as he extended a hand.

Jordan didn't comment; instead, she gave her Mentor a look that said it all. Standing on the rocks, the woman grasped the Scotsman's hand, placed her foot on his, and swung her leg over. Placing the waterskins between them, Jordan yawned widely as she wrapped her arms around the Highlander's waist, leaned against his broad back and closed her eyes. Arriving at the stream, Duncan reined in his steed and frowned. During the trip to the river, the Highlander had to reach behind twice and steady Jordan when she almost fell off the horse.

"Jordie – are you with me?" he asked, looking over his shoulder before dismounting. The Clansman's sharp gaze raked over his student. She was definitely awake, but was not her usual, chipper self.

"I'm awake!" the younger Immortal murmured tiredly.

"Are you okay?" the Clansman asked, worried. It was unlike her to fall asleep when extremely uncomfortable – especially on horseback.

"What's going on with you?" He asked as he helped her dismount.

"I think I ate too much stew. All the blood is rushing to my stomach." Jordan mumbled.

"Are you sure?" Duncan asked.

His dark brows knitted together as he cradled her face in his hands. Her eyelids were drooping, yet her eyes were clear, albeit a bit glassy. Everyone ate the same thing, yet Jordan was the only one who was extremely sleepy. Odd. Giving herself a mental shake, Jordan put forth her best efforts to stay awake. Though she was very, very tired, the younger Immortal definitely wanted a bath. But not right now.

"Duncan, why don't you go first? I'll just take a nap here while I wait." The woman suggested.

The Highlander searched his Student's face as he reached for the saddlebags with his toiletries. Confident that Jordan's Immortal immunity would take care of what was ailing her, the Clansman still wondered why she was so tired. Chalking it up to their journey, Duncan hesitated.

"Go on, Duncan. I'll be fine. I just need a little snooze, and the refreshingly chilly stream will wake me up." His Student reasoned.

"You're sure." The Highlander said.

"Yes, Mother." She replied.

With her back to the Highlander, Jordan stretched out atop a large, flat rock jutting over the sloping edge of a small knoll, and closed her eyes against the darkening sky. The youngest Immortal blinked awake as cold water landed on her face. Standing over her, the Highlander was clad in a fresh change of clothes, and was wringing out the excess water from his wet locks – directly onto her face.

"Hey, sleepyhead – you going to wait till we get to the Golden Hall as well?" Duncan asked.

"No." Jordan scowled as she wiped her face of the water droplets. Grabbing the Highlander's helping hand up, the woman gathered her necessities and paused before heading towards the water.

"Promise me you won't look?" Jordan asked.

"No." Duncan replied with a straight face. After a moment, the Highlander chuckled at his Students horrified expression.

"Of course, silly! I don't think that'll be a problem, though. The water is a bit cool." The Clansman said.

Duncan was right. Though her teeth chattered from the cold, and her fingers were so numb, she could barely feel them, Jordan was glad for the bath, for she wanted to be reasonably clean when she rendezvoused with the Elf, for there was so much left unsaid between them.

_I'm too old for this_. Methos grumbled to himself.

It had been a very, very long time since he'd roughed it in the wild – over 4500 millennia. The ground was hard and rocky, and it was a long time before the Antediluvian finally settled into a comfortable position. Curled with his sword within reach, the Ancient One was drifting off to sleep when his eyes suddenly snapped open. Methos couldn't shake the sudden sense of unease he felt and he trusted his instincts implicitly. The Immortal lay still, listening intently to the night, wondering what wrested him from his fitful slumber. As his vision adjusted, it was several moments until the Eldest made out the bulky lumps that were his companions.

Rising up on his elbow, Methos tossed his blankets aside as he reached for his Ivanhoe. Gripping his sword's leather and wire-wrapped hilt tighter, the Eldest's eyes narrowed as he peered into the dark, searching the shadows. To his right, within arm's length lay the Watcher, snoring softly. To Joe's right, Jordan slept soundly. She would continue to do so until dawn, for the Eldest had seen to that. To her right, lay the Highlander. Leaning on his throwing axe, the Dwarf sat with his back towards the fire and the Outlanders. The Eldest was about to call out to Gimli when the Dwarf let out a series of loud, choppy snores. Methos swore the stout fellow was sawing logs.

_So much for that_. The Immortal snorted to himself.

Save for the occasional spit and pop of the fire, the night was still. Too still. Something was wrong; time slid by with agonizing slowness. Methos waited patiently; still nothing happened. Lying back down, the Eldest was about to gather his blankets to him when he looked up, studying the craggy outline of rocks whose irregular forms sheltered their campsite. The Ancient One was about to let out his pent up breath when a pebble rolled down the rocks and bounced off his hand. Looking above him, Methos almost missed the hulking mass that blended in with the rocks, if it weren't for the lupine eyes that reflected the moonlight. With a surge of adrenalin, the Immortal leaped to his feet with his sword drawn, but in a literal blink of an eye, it was gone. Without taking his eyes from the rockline, the Eldest crouched down and felt for a small rock. Without taking his eyes from the rocks, the Immortal tossed it across the slumbering forms.

"MacLeod!" the Eldest hissed.

"Ow!"

Rubbing his forehead, the Highlander sat up, his Katana drawn. Methos held a hand up, silencing the younger Immortal's question.

"Il y a quelque chose dehors là (there's something out there)." Methos said; in the still night air, the Immortal need only whisper.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est (What is it)?" Duncan asked in a low voice.

Methos cocked his head, indicating that the younger Immortal get up.

"Je ne sais pas, mais son joli (I don't know, but it's pretty) bold. Il est venu près (It came close)." Methos said as he signaled his intention to work his way towards the edge of the rocks.

"Comment fin (how close)?" Duncan asked, frowning.

Gripping his Katana, the Highlander prepared himself for a fight. He was about to wake Jordan, but decided against it; no sense in waking her until he got all the facts together. Besides – she was sleeping so well, Duncan decided she needed to rest as much as she could, before they resumed her journey, especially since she was so tired when they went to bathe.

"Clôturez assez pour que je voie la lumière du feu dans ses yeux (Close enough for me to see the firelight in its eyes)."

"Que le pensez-vous est-vous (What do you think it is)?"

"Je ne sais pas (I don't know)."

"Où est l'elf (where is the Elf)?

"Patrouillent probablement toujours (probably still patrolling).

"Pourquoi nous parlant en français (why are we speaking in French)?"

"Habitude (habit)." Methos answered. The Eldest was about to speak when an abrupt, gravelly voice interrupted.

"Speak in words we can all understand." Gimli broke in.

A sarcastic reply was on the tip of the Ancient One's tongue when the Buzz alerted them to Legolas' arrival. The Immortal's turned towards the source. Soon the Mirkwood Elf came into sight.

"What is the matter?" Legolas inquired.

His bright gaze rested on each awake individual. The Elf was disappointed, puzzled and very annoyed; he had waited patiently for Jordan, but his lover did not come to him. Did she have such little regard for his heart and their future? Legolas' gaze shifted to the still form between the Watcher and the Highlander. That explained why she had not met him at the appointed time. Everyone was awake . . . except for Jordan. No matter what she was doing, or where she was, Jordan always greeted the Elf, or at least looked towards his arrival, yet tonight, only the Outlanders were awake, and she continued to slumber on. Very, very odd.

"Whas goin' on?" Joe's sleepy voice chimed in.

"There was something looking at me." Adam replied calmly.

"I didn't see anything and we Dwarves have eyes like a hawk and ears like a fox." Gimli said, dismissing the Ancient One's claims. There was something about the pale man that instantly set the Dwarf on his guard, and the longer they journeyed together, the greater Gimli's apprehension and distrust of the Man grew.

"You didn't see anything 'cause you were looking at the inside of your eye lids." Methos muttered beneath his breath.

Though the others didn't hear the Ancient One's words, Elven ears did. The Woodland Elf studied the Eldest, his face betraying no emotion.

_The face and body are young, yet . . . there is something about this Man that is not right._ Legolas thought to himself. There was a cunning shrewdness about the eyes of the tall Outlander that disturbed the Fair One.

Methos met Golden Elf's gaze, his face equally impassive. Legolas studied the Men before him; it was unlike the Dwarf to fall asleep on his watch, no matter how weary the sturdy little folk wereThe Mirkwood Prince knew things were amiss in the little camp, yet he had no tangible proof, and no way to explain what it was that niggled at him. Legolas trusted his instincts, and right now, they were telling him that the seemingly innocuous Man before him was not at all forth coming. Unable to prove his suspicions, the Golden Elf held his tongue. He reminded himself to be careful not to underestimate the enigmatic Son-of-Pier.

A/N:

Okay, folks. At long last, ch. 27; sorry it took a while. I had some family issued over the holidays, and I have more issues/drama in my life right now. Thank you to Dinah for being such a wonderful Beta! She is awesome, awesome, AWESOME!


	29. Chapter 29

Holy smokes, people – I'm still alive! Just wanted to let you know I'm still around, and do intend to post the rest of Jordie's story. Life just got in the way in a most spectacular manner. Please bear with me a little longer. It's still a work in progress!


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